My Affair With The Master Shipbuilder
by FordTruckGirl4TA
Summary: Carrie Stevenson, traveling with her friends Jack and Fabrizio on the Titanic, runs across none other than Mr. Thomas Andrews himself. The unthinkable happens: Carrie, a steerage passenger, begins to fall in love. . . but her crush may not be as one sided
1. Chapter One

MY AFFAIR WITH THE MASTER SHIPBUILDER  
  
by FordTruckGirlTA  
  
Author's Note: *IMPORTANT* The rating for this thing is somewhere between PG-13 and R, only because colorful language is used pretty casually, and there's a near-rape (sorry) of a character. And I know that most of the vocabulary used would never have been heard in 1912, but HEY, that's why it's fan FICTION, right? Anyway, reviews are MUCH appreciated (please be nice, this is my first fanfic), and Chapter 2 won't be up for awhile because my family and I are going on vacation to Ford Truck central. Anyway, just the other week I started watching the Titanic movie, and I honestly hadn't seen it since 1997 or 98, and I started noticing a certain tall, trim gentlman who absolutely touched my heart. I know that's absolutely corny, and he only had maybe thirty lines in the whole movie, but. . . then I remembered fanfiction.net and thought, okay, no way there's gonna be Andrews fic here. . . but what's going on? Has a Thomas Andrews movement begun? There are 3 or 4 new fics up! And I thought I was the only one writing one.   
  
Also, some story notes: One, I debated for the longest time what to have my character refer to Andrews as. Should she call him Thomas, as everyone else does and also what sounds so nice, or should she call him Tom, which is more friendly, showing that they're on a more personal level? I finally decided on Thomas, but I may have her call him Tom just for the hey of it somewhere down the road. Oh, and fanfiction.net won't load everything I italicized! If you're reading and you think something needs more force, then by all means, italicize it in your mind, because it was probably meant to be that way anyway. The characters' thoughts, too-- those should be italicized. Anyway, enough blabbering-- on with the story! Enjoy!!!  
  
ONE  
  
To be frank, I was a shit-poor American who just wanted to get home. I didn't have money, God knows-- all I had were my friends Fabrizio and Jack, who were exceptionally lucky at poker. I didn't gamble; most places wouldn't let a girl gamble, even though I was twenty-one. So it was all I could do to stand (kneel, actually) behind Jack and the very Italian Fabrizio as they played their hands to win three tickets on the RMS Titanic. I stared over their shoulders at their well-worn playing cards. Fabrizio had the worst hand of the group, no doubt, and he didn't know how to bluff it. He sat there, shoulders slumped.   
  
"I can't take this." I said finally, my stomach in knots. We'd bet all the cash we had with us, and without it, we'd better hope to find work in twenty-four hours. I grabbed one of the coins off of the table, and to my surprise, no one argued it. "I'm getting a beer." I went to the counter and immediately ordered one, downing half of it in three long swallows. I fixated my eyes out the window on the enormous steamer, the Titanic, and willed Jack's hand to be a good one. That's when I nearly choked as he hollered behind me, ". . . cause we're going to America! Full house, boys!"  
  
I spat beer all over the floor in shock as I turned to see them exalting; Fabrizio threw his arms around my neck and cried, "Ah-mehr-ee-ca! We are going to Ah-mehr-ee-ca!!"  
  
Jack, his huge blue eyes wild with excitement, grabbed me as soon as Fabrizio jumped out of the way, brandishing his ticket in front of the other drinkers; together Jack and I practically jumped up and down in our embrace. The bartender's words cut through the noise, however: "No, mate! Titanic goes to America-- in five minutes!"  
  
Jack was again wide-eyed, but this time in horror. "Oh, shit!" he breathed, and we grabbed our bags and threw ourselves out the door. "We're the luckiest sons-- and daughters-- of bitches in the world!" he cried happily, looking over his shoulder as we raced through the tangled crowd of well wishers. He continued shouting over his shoulder as we ran; Fabrizio and I just listened, both of our faces stretched with grins.  
  
Moments later we were running up the ramp to steerage and hollering at the guard not to move it any more than it was; there was a four-foot gap from the end of the plank to the door. "Wait, wait, wait!" the guard cried. "Have you been through inspection?"  
  
"Of course we have." Jack and I said at the same time, and we grinned at each other. Jack finished. "And anyway, we're Americans. We don't have lice." he thrust our tickets at the man.  
  
The guard in the door bit his lip, but said, "All right, all right, come on."  
  
"Thank you!" We jumped the four feet, then raced through the hallways to find the way to the top of the deck to wave good-bye to the completely unlucky people below us. It took us another five minutes to get up there, but when we did, we found that it was well worth it.   
  
The deck was solid and warm under my shoes from the sun; the sea air hit my face in a hot but wonderfully scented rush. Jack launched himself onto a railing, waving at the crowd. Fabrizio kissed both of my cheeks then grinned like a madman; I knew my grin was much the same. We all stood on the railing, waving as the ship pulled slowly out to sea. I was glad beyond belief.   
  
I was finally going home.  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
The next afternoon, lunch was being served in the steerage dining hall. Aside from dinner last night and breakfast this morning, it was the largest and best meal I'd had in a long, long time, and for the first time in years, I felt full. "Dessert!" Jack cried aloud as small plates with a slice of apple pie were passed out.   
  
I stared at the pie in utter disbelief; it looked like a small, shimmering mirage of sweet apple goodness. I raised my fork, and let it cut into the pie. "Car-rie." Fabrizzio said, happy but slightly annoyed. "Just eat it!" he had his pie held in both hands as though it were one of his pizzas from Italy.   
  
"Can't." I said, staring down at it. "I have to savor it."  
  
I took the first mouthful of pie off of the fork, chewing it slowly; sweetness exploded in my mouth. It tasted so good that it was almost frightening, and it made me want to eat it even faster.   
  
"The best damn piece of pie I've had since I've been in Wisconsin." Jack said through his own mouthful, his voice muffled as he chewed  
  
"My mother still made them better." said the Irishman to Jack's right. "Someday, I'll ship some of it to you all."  
  
"Much appreciated." I said, taking another slice.   
  
The Irishman nodded, smiling. "You folks been above deck yet?" Tim wanted to know.  
  
"Twice." I assured him. "It was beautiful."  
  
"Aye, i' twas, that." he agreed, looking around. Suddenly his face changed; he rolled his eyes   
  
and they took on a look of extreme irritation as he threw up his hands. "Ho-hum." he said, his accent thick. "Lookit what the dog dragged in."  
  
We turned to see what he was watching, and I had to work to keep my jaw from falling open. A tall, trim, and extremely handsome man was standing in the doorway thirty yards away. His hair was graying, but he didn't at all seem old, and his face was smooth and gentle. He was dressed so elegantly that I knew he was from first class. His class rank was also hinted by the fact that the small man at his elbow was the first mate, Mr. Murdoch, whom I'd seen above decks earlier. They were both speaking quietly; the taller man was slowly looking around the dining room, a roll of papers under his arm. He didn't quite wear a smile, but his eyes sure did, and it wasn't a spiteful smile, either. He was quite handsome.  
  
"That'd be Mr. Andrews." The Irishman said, shaking his head. "The man who built this ship. Bloody bastards have to come down and gawk at us like we was circus animals. The man in the uniform beside him is First Mate Murdoch."  
  
I was staring at Mr. Andrews, transfixed. There was something in the way he held himself, something about the way a smile tugged at his lips but couldn't win. Something about the way his eyes twinkled. I realized suddenly that his stare was coming to rest at every table in the room, and that he was only moments away from seeing ours.   
  
"They look alright to me." Jack said, going back to his cigarette.  
  
"Carrie?" Fabrizio said.  
  
I jumped and looked at him; he'd been watching me. I knew I was blushing a deep red. "Yes?"  
  
The Irishman suddenly grinned broadly. "All right, who were ye lookin' at?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" I asked unconvincingly, going back to my pie. "I wasn't looking at anybody."  
  
"You were." Jack argued, also grinning. "Look at her ears turn red."  
  
"You are liking Mr. Andrews!" Fabrizio cried, happy grin still there. "Aren't you!"  
  
"Maybe." I said, looking back up at Andrews.   
  
"Or is it Murdoch?" Jack teased.  
  
"Hell, no." I said, still watching Andrews My stomach gave a funny jolt as I realized that he was looking at our table. I stared at him, trying to make my eyes widen less, and then suddenly, I felt his eyes lock onto mine.   
  
I'd been fumbling with my napkin in my lap, but now I froze, and so did he. I forced myself to smile at him, just a small, hello how are you smile, and to my surprise, he returned it, a dimple showing in his cheek. This made my smile broaden even more; he was so handsome. Then to my shock, he dipped his head ever so slightly in a nod toward me. I returned the nod, then had to break the stare, staring down at my pie instead.  
  
"Ooo!" Jack hooted, his grin huge. "Lookit thaat!"  
  
"Shut up." I said, my face beet red even though I was smiling.  
  
"Y' doan have to worry 'bout it, lass." The Irishman assured me. "The likes of him would never be involved with the likes of us."  
  
I knew he was right; I watched Mr. Andrews turn to go with Murdoch. He motioned Murdoch to go ahead of him, and then glanced back around a final time. I realized suddenly that he was looking for me as his eyes again fell on mine; he saw that I was watching him, smiled shyly again. I smiled back, and realized that there was a blush creeping out of his collar as he disappeared down the corridor.   
  
"Yeah." I said to the Irishman. "I know." I cut another piece of my pie. "But it sure   
  
doesn't hurt to dream."  
  
After lunch I headed back to our room. The state of the room was somewhat complicated; the moment that Jack and Fabrizio and I realized that single women were stationed all the way on the other side of the ship, they absolutely refused to let me stay there. I wasn't thrilled with the arrangements, either, so I pulled a pillow and a few extra blankets from my room to theirs; Fabrizio and I squeezed into the same bunk. It honestly wasn't too terrible; we were both fairly skinny, and the bunk was a nice size. And I wasn't worried about. . . well, because Fabrizio just didn't have that kind of heart. The other two guys who shared our room were pretty nice, and they knew full well that they'd be in deep shit from us and the ship officials if they laid a finger on me.  
  
Anyway, after lunch, I lay on my bunk for awhile, fingers entwined behind my head, staring at the ceiling, feeling the comforting rumble of the engines beneath me. I'd told Jack and Fabrizio that I'd meet them on deck in two hours for more looking around. I actually fell asleep, but woke when I still had a half an hour left. I left my room then instead of waiting, pocketing my key.   
  
"Damn." I cursed under my breath as I missed the full elevator. Looking around, I turned, and decided to just take the stairs. It took a few moments to find them, but it felt good to use my legs and climb.  
  
I was halfway up the empty stairwell when it happened.  
  
A man started to pass me. He was tall, and obviously well-muscled under his thin shirt. Our eyes met briefly; I smiled at him-- and then suddenly my arm was in a death grip and I was being shoved against the wall. I gasped as this man, whoever he was, threw his weight against me. His Irish accent thick, his face frighteningly close to mine, he breathed, "Pretty little thing to be runnin' round here by yerself."  
  
I tried to move away, to elbow him, to hurt him like I'd been taught-- but I couldn't move. I was pinned. I searched his face wildly, trying to remember what he looked like to describe him to the ship officials later.   
  
He laughed, a cruel, merciless laugh. I nearly screamed when he thrust his hips against mine, but he silenced me with a violent slap across the face. I gasped from the pain, still struggling. "If ye scream," he threatened huskily. "I'll kill ye."  
  
At that point I threw my knee up against his disturbingly hard groin; he gasped and fell back, nearly bent double. I started to run, but immediately was stopped as he grabbed my arm. He threw me against the wall again; I elbowed him across the face and he struck me again, pinning my arms to my sides, forcing one elbow into a rivet in the wall. "One more time. . ." he threatened, and reached his hand up to the collar of my shirt.   
  
I squeezed my eyes closed, tasting blood and feeling it slide down my arm, hearing the collar begin to rip, a tear that went right down the middle of the garment. I was terrified, shaking like a madwoman, not knowing what to do. The tearing stopped; I could feel his heated breath on my chest band. That's when I heard the quick footfalls coming down the steps. The footfalls, and the angry voice. "What the bloody hell are you doing!?" the voice was clear with a slight trace of Irish ancestry; I looked up and right at the wide-eyed Mr. Andrews and Mr. Murdoch.   
  
My heart jumped a mile and my red face flushed even more. "Please." I whispered, staring up at them. My God, Andrews' eyes were so concerned. So scared for me. My heart seemed to double it's furious pounding "Mr. Andrews." I could hardly breathe, but speaking his name made an extra rush of adrenaline shoot through me. I blinked my eyes to clear them. "Mr. Murdoch."  
  
Andrews came down the last few steps, all sympathy gone as he glared, furious, at my captor. "You miserable bastard." he spat, eyes livid. "Let go of her this instant!"  
  
The man slowly shrank back. "You can't make me. This bitch here's me wife."  
  
I WHAT!? "Bullshit! I'm not your wife!"  
  
The man slapped me again. "Yew shut the bloody 'ell up!"  
  
"He said let her go!" Murdoch roared, and I could hear the faintest brush of a Scottish accent.  
  
Trembling violently, feeling blood sliding down my face and arm, I watched as the man stepped away. Embarrassed beyond all reason, I tried to pull the pieces of my dress together again, without success. Murdoch immediately pulled a pair of cuffs from his pocket and yanked the man's hand behind his back. "We're taking you to the master at arms." Murdoch turned to me, eyes plainly focusing on my own to keep from staring at my ripped bodice. "Miss, you'd best come too. You've got to help report this."  
  
I was trembling violently. "Mr. Murdoch, my. . ." I glanced down at my inappropriately torn shirt. ". . . I can't. . ."  
  
Murdoch was bright pink. "I'd let you go back and dress, miss, but the gash on your elbow doesn't look like it will wait. And you'd probably stain whatever you're wearing now and what you'll be changing into."  
  
Andrews, whose eyes had been on mine even though I wasn't looking directly at him, spoke up softly. "Might I escort the lady to the infirmary? Perhaps she can get her wound dressed, and then she can borrow my coat."   
  
It took every nerve in me to keep from staring in shock. Taking me to get my arm stitched up and borrowing his coat? I was a third-class passenger, not the Queen of Sheba!  
  
"Does that sound agreeable, Miss?" Murdoch asked me, then noticed I was trembling and mistook it. "You'll be quite alright, I assure you. Mr. Andrews is quite the gentleman."  
  
"I trust him, sir," I stammered, Andrews' and my eyes locked. "I just don't like the idea of parading through the entire ship like this."  
  
"I know all the back passages." Andrews said, his voice and eyes so kind. "I'll get you there without a single person seeing you." He wouldn't look away. "I can promise you that."  
  
I trusted him completely. "Yes. That's-- thank you." I couldn't hold his stare, just as I hadn't been able to in the dining room. Not that I wanted to look away; his were the gentlest eyes I'd ever looked into. Damn.  
  
"Alright." Murdoch began to haul the man up the stairs. "Meet you in the crew lounge in twenty minutes."  
  
Andrews turned back to me, trying to smile, even though his eyes projected pure concern. "You sound as though you already know me, but. . ." he dipped his chin a fraction of an inch. "I'm Thomas Andrews." He held out his hand for me to shake.  
  
"Carrie Stevenson." I reached up to shake his hand, and then suddenly drew it back with a small gasp. Blood streaked my hand in a lace-like pattern from the cut on my elbow, and it had been dripping on the floor. I hadn't even noticed.  
  
"JesusMaryandJoseph." Andrews murmured. "Why didn't you mention it was this bad?"  
  
"I didn't notice myself." I told him, turning my arm to see my elbow. A thin but unattractive gash had opened. "I was so caught up in the-- in--"  
  
Nearly whispering, his steady and concerned eyes locked on mine, Andrews said, "Did you know the man?"  
  
"No." I whispered, swallowing hard.   
  
"Did he manage to take advantage of you?"  
  
"No." I said again, my face hot with a blush.   
  
He nodded, seeming to know that the questions embarrassed me. "Good." We began walking.   
  
"I saw you in the dining room earlier today." I told him after a moment, wondering if he'd remember.  
  
"Yes." his smile broadened and he glanced at me. "I saw you, as well."  
  
He remembered! "Are you. . ." I trailed off, not sure if it was the appropriate time to ask. "Is it true that you designed and diagramed Titanic?"  
  
"Right down to the kind of carpet in the billiard room." he admitted. "Yes, it was me."  
  
The man himself. "This is an unbelievable ship, sir. Truly." I meant every word.  
  
He looked down at me, eyes kind between the one and a half feet that separated his from mine. "Thank you, Miss Stevenson."  
  
  
"Please, Mr. Andrews." I found myself saying. "My name's Carrie."   
  
"As my name is Thomas."  
  
I couldn't help but to smile, thinking, Mother of God, the man is asking you to call him by his first name! In moments, we'd reached a small area on B deck. Once inside, a nurse cleaned and bandaged my elbow. Andrews then removed his jacket and placed it around my shoulders. I hadn't realized how cold I'd been until I put it on; his warmth settled around me like a blanket. I could smell him, too-- a trace of pipe smoke and a whiff of aftershave. It was delicious. "Thank you, Thomas." I whispered.  
  
"Your gratitude is my honor." he murmured. Offering his own elbow, we headed back up the hall toward the crew lounge.  
  
And he kept his promise-- we didn't see a single person on the way to or from the hospital. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Here it is! Chapter Two! Woohoo! Katrina, thank you so much for the review. Glad you like it. As for everyone else, if you can, reviews are not only accepted, but MUCH appreciated! After I upload this, I'm off to watch Part II of the movie and get myself all depressed over the great acting job Victor Garber does as Andrews. . . sniffle. Man, is that sad. Oh, and Dearborn, MI is going through a Titanic craze. . . just got back from vacation there, and I saw a billboard for a museum display with Titanic artifacts, and at the Henry Ford Museum, there's an IMAX Titanic movie called "Ghosts of the Abyss", and it's actually directed by James Cameron. I wanted to see it, but the folks could have cared less. Much less. If anyone's seen it, please tell me what you thought! Anyway. . . hope you guys are enjoying this so far. If you're reading this and don't have a fanfiction.net account and want to review it, please feel free to email me at the24fan4ever2@aol.com, or Instant Message me, AIM style, on the same screen name. I love talking about this stuff, and I will email/IM you back! Enjoy. . . I'm off to feel sorry for Thomas.  
  
TWO  
  
After the sick guy was put away, Andrews took me back to my quarters. We talked the whole walk back, and, feeling a little guilty, I led him to just outside my room in the women's quarters as not to let him think that I slept in a room that was also occupied with four single men. But when we got to my rooms, I found I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to learn more about him, and wondered in the back of my mind if he would be interested in hearing what I'd done two years ago. That was when I'd abandoned my three-year's working with a shipyard on the American east coast. It'd been hell trying to find work, but when the workers in the shipyard saw that I was capable of it, they took me in, and there I'd stayed until I met up with Jack.  
  
I brought my thoughts back to the present, where Thomas was standing before me, his eyes kind. "Thanks," I told him, knowing my words weren't enough. "I appreciate you doing all this."  
  
"T'wasn't a problem." he assured me gently, and then, serious but hopeful, he said, "Carrie, I'd be honored. . . if you would join me-- and my companions for dinner tomorrow evening."  
  
My heart jumped at hearing this. He wanted me to go to dinner with him? Me go with him to dinner? I was nearly speechless. "Thomas, I would. . . my God, I'd love to. . ."  
  
His smile broadened by quite a bit. "Wonderful. I'll meet you at the stairs, B Deck."  
  
At the words "B Deck", I remembered. Thomas was first class. I was third class. Didn't he know that? I gulped, wondering if that had fully sunk in with him. But we were standing here on G Deck, for Chrissake. Of course it would have sunk in. The man wasn't stupid.  
  
"Alright, but. . ." I gulped, and gave in: he knew, and he obviously didn't care. I focused now on the more important problem. "Look, I don't have anything to wear. I mean, the rest of my wardrobe isn't much better than this. . ."  
  
To my surprise, he had a solution all ready. "Tell you what we'll do." he pulled a tiny notepad from his pocket, and a pencil, and then stopped, and looked at me. "Can you read?"  
  
"Since I was four." I said, proud to be able to tell him so.  
  
"Good." he turned to his little piece of paper and began scribbling. "Look, find this room this evening, round about. . . four thirty. A Mrs. Peckdash is staying here, and her trade is tailoring. She'll find something suitable for you. Tell her I sent you, and you won't have to do a thing." He passed me the finished note.  
  
"Thomas, I. . ." I could hardly voice my gratitude. "Thank you so much. . . for this, and, and for helping me with that man, and-- and everything." I suddenly realized that I was still wearing his jacket, and I slipped it off of my shoulders and passed it back to him, realizing that my hand was trembling. Never in my life had anyone been this kind to me. "I. . . thanks." I stuffed my free fist into the pockets of my skirt.  
  
He took the coat, his eyes soft and twinkling. "T'was my pleasure, Carrie. And thank you, for accepting my dinner proposal."  
  
I could feel my cheeks warm with a blush. "You're welcome."  
  
Thomas smiled slightly. "If there's anything you need at all, find Mr. Murdoch or myself. We'll be glad to help you." He held out his hand for me to shake it.  
  
I took it; we shook hands. Both of our grips were tight; his palm was large and warm. "Thanks again," I told him, hating myself for how many times I'd said "thank you" in the past thirty seconds.  
  
"See you tomorrow." he smiled, his eyes meeting mine, and released my hand, turning to go.  
  
For a moment I took control of the odd feeling in my stomach, and then suddenly, I felt uneasy. Maybe he really didn't know what he was doing. "Thomas, wait!" I hurried after him.  
  
He was no more than twenty paces ahead of me, but he stopped and turned, his voice and eyes extremely concerned. "Carrie?"  
  
His look made me stumble over words. "Are. . . are you sure you want to do this?" I couldn't help but ask it. I didn't want to be forcing him into this. "I mean, this is crazy--" I cut myself off; I hadn't meant it like that. "--I mean-- that's not what I meant. . . I just. . ."  
  
"I'm listening." Thomas assured me, and from the way his eyes looked so sincere, I knew that he was.  
  
I found the words. "I'm. . . I'm steerage. I'm just above the rats on this ship. Are you sure you want to invite a third-class girl to a first- class dinner?"  
  
He spoke softly, concerned eyes pouring into mine. "Is that whatche think, Carrie? That I'm going to be concerned about what class you're in?"  
  
I was taken aback by his answer. "I'm so used to it in everybody else. . ."  
  
"I'm not like those dogs who immediately judge people by what position they're in on my ship." he assured me quietly. Silence passed between us, but it might as well have been filled with hours' worth of conversation. I felt as though I knew this man better. "Yes, Carrie. I'm sure I want to do this."  
  
I had to take in a breath to steady myself, and I forced myself to look up at him. "Thanks. It. . . it means a lot to me."  
  
His face relaxed into a smile. "You're quite welcome." He reached out suddenly, and gently gripped my shoulder, his eyes intent as he stared into mine. "And please, Carrie Stevenson. You're not just above the rats on this ship. You're far, far above them, in a higher class than any that could be designated by this ship. The good Lord knows it. . ." he shifted his eyes upward briefly, then brought them right back to mine, and nodded so slightly it looked as though his head had twitched. ". . . and I know it."  
  
I didn't break the stare this time. His comment had somehow hit a chord in me. No one had ever given me praise like that. I hardly knew what to say. "I. . ." For some reason my throat was tight. I cursed silently, knowing this was a prologue to tears, and I never, ever cried. ". . . that was. . ." I let out a frustrated breath, not knowing what to say. ". . . thank you very much."  
  
From the way his eyes poured into mine, I could tell that those words had been enough. He knew I was trying to thank him but couldn't. He released my shoulder, and smiled gently. "You're quite welcome. See you tomorrow?"  
  
I nodded, smiling back, my eyes still burning, my voice slightly choked. "Yes. See you then."  
  
I watched him go, and as he rounded the corner, I headed for my real rooms. Pushing the key into the lock, the weight of what he'd said finally sank in. I leaned my head against the door, giving up on the key. I let my shoulders shake, and allowed the tears of gratitude drip one by one onto my knuckles.  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
Hours later, I looked down at the paper, and then up at the door. The room numbers (B24) matched, one in pencil, the other in gold lettering on the door. I raised my hand timidly, feeling quite out of place in the fine carpeted hallway of the first class passengers. A woman passed me, looking me up and down, and sniffed. I set my teeth and ignored her, and knocked firmly on the door before me.  
  
For a moment nothing happened, and then the lock clicked and the door was pulled open.  
  
A slightly large woman in her early forties or so opened the door. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back from her face, and her afternoon dress still clung to her frame. She looked extremely elegant, and to my surprise, smiled at me. "Hello," she said. Her voice was low but friendly. "May I help you?"  
  
"Mr. Andrews sent me," I said, tucking the paper into my pocket, curling my hand around it. "I told him I didn't have anything to wear for supper tomorrow, so. . ."  
  
She smiled again. "You're Carrie Stevenson. Yes, he mentioned you'd be stopping by. Please, come in. I'm Mrs. Peckdash."  
  
She stepped aside and I entered, nearly gasping at the elegance before me. The wood-paneled walls flashed with golden decor; a large- windowed door led out to a private deck, the carpet was thick and luxurious. There were also clothing and fabric draped over every inch of available space.  
  
"You'll be wanting something to wear for dinner, eh?" she went to a small box sitting on the desk, and pulled out a long cord of measuring tape. "Well, Carrie, I'll have to take your measurements. Come here." The cord whisked around me for a few moments as she recorded her findings on a scrap of paper, and then she began to sort through the stacks of clothing. "You partial to a certain color?"  
  
"Blue's my favorite." I confessed. "A dark, midnight-y blue."  
  
She smiled and glanced back at me. "Yes, blue would do wonders for you. Alright. . ." she continued hunting around, throwing things over her arm, and then finally thrust the pile into my arms. "Now we've got to get you a corset."  
  
"Wonderful." I muttered.  
  
She actually found one and helped me into it, tightening the laces until I felt as though I could hardly breathe. "Anyone ever passed out from lack of oxygen?" I squeaked.  
  
"You bet they have." she said unconcernedly. "There. See, look in that mirror over there."  
  
I looked, feeling pretty stupid, but then I noticed that I'd just lost a few inches due to it. "Wow." I said, shocked. "Thanks."  
  
"Now step into this," she held out one of the blue garments she'd found. I did so, and she began to tie it at the back. I looked back in the mirror, startled. The dress' sleeves stopped right above my elbow, the neckline low and square. From the neckline emerged a rectangle that went down to the sash at the waist. It was a fabric of a slightly lighter blue, delicate designs upon it, tiny beads clinging to it that matched the main color of the dress. The sash was cream-colored and satin. The skirt was long and clingy, flowing into a slightly long train in the back. The rectangle of blue and beads went right down the skirt itself.  
  
"I love it." I whispered.  
  
"Wonderful." she stared at it in the mirror, her eyes narrowed. "Funny, it seems to fit you very well. Anything feel too loose or tight?  
  
"No." I took a step, corset restricting my movements. "Feels pretty good."  
  
"Oh, goodness!" Mrs. Peckdash said suddenly.  
  
I winced at her cry, but turned to look at her. "What is it?"  
  
"You poor girl. You've no idea how to walk like a lady!"  
  
I stared. "What? How is a lady supposed to walk?" I bit back a smile. "Last time I checked, all one had to do was pick up one foot and put it in front of the other."  
  
"Not quite." she said. "You're trying to move in strides. A first- class lady must limit her steps. Take twice as many, and move slowly. You'll find, once we get you into a pair of shoes, that you'll have to move like that anyway."  
  
"Great." I said sarcastically, but turned again to my reflection. Learning to walk like a lady would be worth it to actually have dinner with Thomas.  
  
Peckdash was rolling up her measuring tape. "Listen, I'll keep the dress tonight, but Saturday at around. . . say, five thirty, you stop on by and I'll help you into this again. Then we'll get your hair done and put some makeup on for you."  
  
"You'd do that?" I asked, surprised.  
  
"You bet." she said with a wink. "Now come along, I've got to get ready for supper myself."  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
Back at our quarters late that evening, I was awake, flat on my stomach on the bed, writing with my notebook propped on my pillow. I was alone, but not for long; Fabrizio entered.. He was the first one back from dinner, and he climbed into the top bunk beside me. "Sorry," I said, scooting over, putting my thoughts about the shipyard and Thomas aside.  
  
"Don't worry about it." he said, scooting to his side, facing the wall. "Grazie."  
  
"Prego." For a moment I stared down at my half-full notebook page. "Fabrizio?"  
  
"Si?"  
  
I blinked, staring at the darkness. "How does a person know they're in love?"  
  
"Carrie," he said. "People have been asking the same question for hundreds of years and the answer is never good enough."  
  
I half-smiled. "Try me."  
  
"You just. . ." Fabrizio trailed off, then finished. "You just know."  
  
My smile broadened. "That was good enough. More than."  
  
"Why?" he turned to face me, a grin alight on his face. "Are you in love?"  
  
"I believe I am." I said, smiling back.  
  
"With Andrews?"  
  
I paused. "Yes."  
  
"And he with you?"  
  
Again, I hesitated. "Maybe."  
  
"Good." he said. "Then there will actually be room in my bunk." And he laughed when I pummeled him with my pillow.  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
Saturday morning, I was up before dawn, and I slipped out of my bunk quietly, pulling on a skirt and a shirt, rolling up the sleeves. I headed for the steerage dining room, where the cooks there were already making breakfast. They were surprised to see someone up this early, but they had some food ready, so I took a stack of toast and a cup of coffee up to the deck to watch the sun come up. I sat up near the captain's quarters, my legs on the deck chair and crossed under my skirt as I ate and drank silently. A hundred thoughts were crowding my mind, most of them about Thomas.  
  
When I was finished with my toast, and half through with my coffee, I pulled my notebook from the folds of my skirt, and began to write to take my mind off of Thomas. I wrote:  
  
Possibilities after the Titanic docks: 1. Continue with Jack and Fabrizio 2. Return to New York harbor and shipyards, try to get into a higher position in the company 3. Strike out on my own and try to find work elsewhere 4. ?  
  
The first two seemed like the best possibility. I hated the idea of leaving Jack and Fabrizio, but we couldn't stick together forever, and I didn't want to make them stay in New York with me. I didn't like the idea of traveling alone, only because if anything ever happened, no one would know or even care. And I doubted that I'd have much success finding work anywhere besides the shipyard. What I was really interested in was designing ships, the grand ones like the Olympic, and the one right under my shoes. But I doubted that even they would give me a position as high up as that one.  
  
I decided to quit thinking about it, gnawed my pencil for a moment, and then pressed it to the paper again.  
  
Things to ask Thomas: 1. Tell me about your childhood, how did you get started with the shipping business, etc 2. Are you married?  
  
I paused at #2, surprised at what had come out of my pencil. Yeah, right. I could never ask him that. It wouldn't only be downright rude, but it would as much as shout to his face that I was falling fast for him. And he'd probably think I was too forward. Holy Moses, was love complicated. I didn't cross it out, though.  
  
3. Do you have another ship in the works? 4. ???!  
  
Once again, I was stumped for a #4. I thought for a moment about writing down if I could ask him for a job working as a maid or stewardess on his ship; they were always in demand, and I knew plenty about ships. Not that the knowing ships part would do much good.  
  
Then, before I could write it, a shadow fell across my notebook. I snapped it closed and looked up; the smiling face of First Officer Murdoch beamed down at me in the post-dawn light.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Stevenson." he greeted kindly, holding out his hand, looking trim and tall (I shit you not) in his uniform.  
  
I stood up, grinning back; we shook hands. "Mr. Murdoch." I said, and we both sat, he on the deck chair next to me. "Nice to see you again. How are you?"  
  
"Thank you; I'm excellent. How about yourself? Feeling all right after the other day?"  
  
"Never better," I said, with only a tiny hint of sarcasm.  
  
He heard it, but didn't mind; he only nodded a little. "We've telegraphed the coast already; we've gotten a local court there to set a trial date."  
  
I nodded back, even though I didn't like the idea. They'd told me Thursday that they were going to try to do this, because "molestation", as they'd called it, along with attempted rape, was against American law, and that man, though immigrated from Ireland years back, was an American citizen. "Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome." he smiled again, and looked at my closed notebook. "What were you writing?"  
  
"Nothing," I said, trying to dismiss his question. "Just thoughts."  
  
"I understand." Murdoch said. "I'm sorry to interrupt you."  
  
"No, no, that's okay." I watched him. His elbows were on his knees, his fingers folded. He looked as though he were on the edge of saying something important, but didn't know how to get the words out. "Mr. Murdoch, something tells me you didn't come here just to mention the trial."  
  
He let out a long breath, one of resignation. "You're right, Miss Stevenson. There's more than that." his glance at me was hesitant. "That is, if you'll permit me to do so."  
  
"Believe me," I assured him. "There isn't much you can talk about that'll make me uncomfortable."  
  
"Good." he said. "Now. . . did Mr. Andrews really invite you to dinner this evening?"  
  
I nearly jumped. Of all the things I was expecting Murdoch to talk about, that was at the bottom of the list. "Yes," I said, surprised. "He did. How did you find out?"  
  
"Andrews and I are close friends." he said, very interested on the seams of his gloves. "He comes to me a lot for advice, and sometimes he gets around to venting his feelings to me. Yesterday. . . well, yesterday, he came to speak about you."  
  
"Uh oh," I said, beginning to smile. Thomas talked to Murdoch! About me! "Whatever it is he said, I didn't do it."  
  
Murdoch nearly laughed. "No, no, it's nothing dreadful. In fact, it's quite the contrary." he was growing bolder now, and looked at me as he spoke. "He told me about how he was feeling such affection for you--" Affection! Holy crap! "-- and how. . . well, how unnerving it all is, because he's never-- never grown attached to someone this fast."  
  
Aha! I wasn't alone! "I know the feeling exactly." I told Murdoch. "I'm. . . I'm going through the same thing."  
  
His grin could have spanned the deck of the ship. "Really! For him?"  
My blush matched the red and pink hues that streaked the sky. "Well. Yes." Suddenly I thought of my list. "Mr. Murdoch, is Thomas married?"  
  
"No," Murdoch said, serious this time. "Never has been. As far as I know-- and I know exceptionally far-- he doesn't have a. . . a girlfriend, either."  
  
"Wow." I said, trying to digest this information all at once. "Single and ready to mingle, eh?"  
  
Murdoch did laugh this time. "Indeed. Anyway, he was telling me about how nervous he was to take you to dinner this evening. From the way I see it, he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of you."  
  
"Mr. Murdoch," I said truthfully. "He could trip over his own feet and he wouldn't look like a fool to me."  
  
"I can't believe this," he said, and there was no other word to describe him besides "merry". "This is extraordinary, the way this is happening to you two at the same time."  
  
I thought of something then. "Mr. Murdoch," I said slowly. "Did he come to you and ask you to tell me all this?"  
  
Murdoch grew serious once again, but his eyes still twinkled. "Miss Stevenson," he said. "I'll put it this way: if he knew I'd come to speak to you about it, he'd have my head on a silver platter." He hesitated. "That is to say, please don't tell him I came to you. He's quite reluctant to share his feelings with anyone. . . he has to trust first." he said the last sentence with his eyes staring sincerely into mine.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind." I said quietly, from my heart.  
  
"Good." Murdoch smiled again. "I--"  
  
"Will?"  
  
Murdoch broke off and turned around at the interruption, and then was immediately on his feet, facing the man who'd come up behind him. For a split second I was confused, then realized that "Will" must be Murdoch's first name. I stood up as well, sensing that the white-haired, uniformed, bearded man was an important one.  
  
"Captain," Murdoch said, smiling, but a little nervous all the same as he saluted the newcomer. "Good morning, sir."  
  
"A good morning to you as well," the man said. From the way Murdoch had addressed him, and just by the look of his spectacular uniform, I guessed that this man was Captain Smith. The captain smiled gently at me. "Introduce me to your friend?"  
  
I couldn't help but to smile back; I could feel in my bones that this was a good man. "I'm Carrie Stevenson, sir." I said, wondering if I should curtsey, or something to that affect.  
  
"Miss Stevenson." he smiled and stepped forward, as did I. We shook hands warmly. "Pleasure to meet you."  
  
"And you, sir." I said.  
  
"Miss Stevenson and I were chatting, that's all." Murdoch informed his superior.  
  
"Wonderful to see you getting along with the passengers," Smith said kindly. "But I'm afraid I need you. Hastings is having trouble in the engine room again."  
  
"Third bloody time this passage." Murdoch muttered, but turned to me, and smiled. "See you around, Miss Stevenson."  
  
"I hope so," I said, and we shook hands. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch."  
  
"You're very welcome." he turned to go with the captain.  
  
I lowered myself back into my deck chair, and took in a deep swallow, trying to remember and absorb everything I'd just heard from Murdoch. When I finally stood up, the smile on my face was the largest I'd worn in a long, long time. 


	3. Chapter Three

Author's Note/Historical Note: YEEHA! Chapter Three (sorry it's so long)! A great big THANK YOU goes out to everyone who's reviewed so far. Thanks for taking the extra couple of minutes. Anyway, here we go-- chapter three is up and ready for the reading/reviewing. Just an historical note about this chapter: everything in his past that Andrews talks about is fact. I went around and looked all this stuff up and took notes. The only things fictional are the Garrison and Wheeler Company (made that up-- woohoo) and the non-fact that they patented the design for the Olympic. Truth be told, I have no idea who came up with the Olympic, but it really sounds like one of Andrews'/ Harland and Wolff projects. If anybody knows, get back to me-- I love finding out about this stuff. Anyway, this morning I watched Part II of Titanic again, and-- I am SO lame-- took notes. It's for the upcoming parts in this story, so I wanted to make sure that I have everything in the correct order, and some of the lines down pat that I'm supposed to use. Well, enough of my blabbering-- does anybody actually read this? LOL. Enjoy, and reviews are MUCH appreciated!!   
  
THREE  
  
  
  
"-- wait a second--" I stared at Jack, bewildered, as he told his story. He'd found me on the deck at slightly past eleven o'clock, A.M . "You pulled her back over the rail, but the crewmen thought--"  
  
He blew a long breath of cigarette smoke out over the deck. "Her dress was torn to the knee, she'd just been screaming, and there I was right over her."  
  
"Jesus." I said reverently, and threw my own cigarette over the railing. "Why aren't you in some sort of boiler-room dungeon?"  
  
Jack grinned, a look that made most girls weak in the knees. I was used to it by now. "I'm gettin' there. But they dragged in some overweight penguin they said was the master-at-arms, and. . ." the smile faded. ". . and Rose's fiancee."  
  
"Sorry." I said, wincing. It sounded like he really liked this girl.  
  
"Yeah." he rolled his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "Me, too. But she doesn't seem to get along with him. At all. Anyway, they were putting handcuffs on me and everything-- even the fiancee was getting into it, yelling at me-- you know, the whole 'how dare you touch my girl' gig." Another smile grew on his face.  
  
"And?" I persisted. "Then what?"   
  
"Rose--" he shook his head, his smile turning into a full-fledged grin. "-- I couldn't believe it. She made up this incredible lie about-- about how she was leaning over the rail to see the propellers, or some bull crap like that, and how she slipped-- she turned me into a hero. Made it sound like I saved her life."  
  
"Well, you did!" I said, surprised. "You convinced her to come back over the rail."  
  
"Yeah, well." he shrugged; he'd never been one to play savior. "Still. And the master-at-arms was congratulating me, and then Cal-- that's her fiancee-- he wanted to give me a twenty for saving Rose's life."  
  
"Twenty bucks?" I said, shocked. "Twenty dollars for saving a life?"  
  
"That's exactly what Rose said." Jack told me, smiling again. "She couldn't believe it, and said so, and then Cal invited me to dinner this evening."  
  
I froze. "He invited you to dinner? Tonight?"  
  
"Yeah, so now I guess I'm going to be dining with the first-class--" he noticed the look on my face. "What's wrong?"  
  
I hadn't told him about Andrews' dinner offer, and I did so now. When I finished, he was laughing. "Christ on a roller coaster." he said, throwing his cigarette over the rail. "Watch us get seated at the same table."   
  
"Two steerage kids among all those people. They'll flip."  
  
"Rose won't." he said confidently.  
  
"Neither will Andrews." I returned, then watched the misty glow in his eye as he stared over the water. "You really like her, don't you." It wasn't a question.  
  
He looked at me, a cocky half-grin on his face. "You really like HIM, don't you."  
  
"Maybe." I said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go return this coffee cup. If I don't see you before dinner, maybe I'll see you there."  
  
  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*   
  
"B Deck," I told the elevator operator as I climbed on board. I was trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and stairwells.   
  
"Right away, miss." he turned the crank, and we started going up. A tiny light flashed above the gate. "Sorry." the operator apologized politely. "Someone's trying to get on at C Deck."  
  
"That's alright." I said, and as the elevator slowed, the floor of C Deck came into view. A pair of well-shined shoes met my eyes, then dark gray trousers, then a long gray coat, and then--  
  
Thomas Andrews, small olive-colored book open and balanced in his palm, looked up as the elevator rolled into view. He closed the book, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Carrie!" he cried, eyes warm and kind. The operator slid the gates open to admit Thomas, who told him, "B Deck", and then turned to me. "How are you?"  
  
We shook hands; his was again warm, grip tight. I couldn't stop smiling, Murdoch's conversation still fresh in my mind. "Fine, Thomas, thank you. How about yourself?"  
  
"Excellent, now that I've--" he stopped, quickly changed the subject. "Where are you headed?"  
  
"Back up to the deck." I told him. "I've been there most of the morning."  
  
"Have you really?" he gestured that I step out first first as the elevator pulled to a stop on B Deck, and he followed me through, walking alongside me. "I was just headed that way. Care to come along?"  
  
"Sure." We walked side by side. I couldn't help but to smile up at him.  
  
He smiled back. "I'm just going to drop something off for the captain. He wanted me to take a look at something in the engine room."  
  
I grinned. "Does this have something to do with a man named 'Hastings'?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," his smile was amused and curious. "It does. How did you know?"  
  
"I heard Murdoch and the captain talking about it. I was pretty close to them when I was on deck." I added the last part in a hurry so that Andrews wouldn't think that Murdoch had been around me so soon after they'd talked.   
  
"I see." Suddenly a blush crept out of his collar, just as it had the other day in the steerage dining hall. "Oh, Carrie, I apologize." he offered his elbow, embarrassed at not having done so earlier. "I'm no gentleman."  
  
"Bullshit." I said, taking the offered elbow. He looked down sharply, a laugh clearly being suppressed.  
  
"Pardon me?" he managed.  
  
I shrugged, thinking of how wonderful it was to hear my name on his lips. "I said bullshit. You're the best gentleman I've ever met."  
  
"Well." he was still blushing as we went out onto the deck, toward the captain's quarters. "Thank you. I've just never heard it in quite that terminology."  
  
"Sorry if I offended you." I said, now sporting a blush of my own. Damn it, I shouldn't have cursed. "The profanity in the shipyards rubbed off on me, I guess."  
  
He looked down at me again, his eyes gentle but very curious. "The shipyards?" his tone was surprised.  
  
"I worked in the Garrison and Wheeler Company shipyards in New York for three years." I just didn't know how to keep my damn mouth shut! Why did I say that!? He was frigging first class! He'd never respect a working woman. He'd wonder why in the world he ever bothered to invite me to dinner--  
  
He interrupted my thoughts. "No-- are you serious?" His face was again alight with a grin; dinner regrets seemed to be the last thing on his mind. "I know of Garrison and Wheeler. Good company. They were the ones that patented the idea of the Olympic. They sold it to us at Harland and Wolff."  
  
"You're with Harland and Wolff?" I said, shocked. It was one of the best companies in the world, and well-mentioned in the yards at G & W.  
  
"I am." he said, smile shy. "That's where we developed every inch of the Titanic. Built her there, too." he was still watching me, and said, somewhat hesitantly, "Does that sort of thing interest you?"  
  
"I wouldn't have stayed for three years if it hadn't." I said. "Yes. I'm interested."  
  
"Ah, Mr. Andrews!" We'd reached the bridge, and there again was Captain Smith, as though he'd been expecting us, which I'm sure he was. "Have the report?"  
  
"Yes, sir." I watched Thomas open the cover of his olive book and draw out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to the captain, who glanced over it, and then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Andrews." The captain smiled at me. "And hello again, Miss Stevenson."  
  
"Hello, sir." I replied, praying that Thomas wouldn't think it was odd that we knew each other.  
  
Captain Smith smiled at us. "You two move along. I'll call you should I need you, Andrews."  
  
"You know Captain Smith?" Thomas asked as soon as we were out of the officer's earshot.  
  
"Murdoch introduced me." I said, trying not to gulp. "He was walking past, so. . ."  
  
"Oh." Thomas tucked his book into his coat pocket. "Carrie, I have a question for you."  
  
"Shoot." I said, wondering what in the world the question could be.   
  
He stopped walking, and turned toward me. Kind brown eyes pouring into my own, he said hopefully, quietly, "Would you be interested in joining me for lunch?"  
  
He did NOT just ask me that.  
  
But then I looked into those gentle, anxious eyes, his eyebrows raised slightly in question, his face smooth, mouth biting his lower lip in anticipation.   
  
I guess he DID just ask me that.  
  
"Very interested, Thomas." I said, unable to stop the large smile that was spreading on my face. "Thank you."  
  
He seemed to relax into one beaming smile. "Excellent. Do you want to go now?"  
  
"Sure." I said, then tore my eyes from his, embarrassed again. "But. . . I don't. . . my outfit. . ."  
  
"We'll go to the steerage cafe." he said gently, and my eyes traveled back up to meet his. "Is that alright?" he asked.   
  
"You'd do that?" I'd been hoping, but never thought it possible he'd offer. "I mean, yes, that's excellent--"  
  
"Yes, I'd do that." he laid his right hand over my hand that was around his elbow. "I would be more than happy to."  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
"So you got out of school when you were sixteen?"  
  
Thomas and I were standing on the boat deck; the sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon, creating a yellow-orange glow all over the ship. We'd just spent the whole afternoon together. He'd taken me to lunch (during which we talked the whole time), then we'd strolled the decks until we found a nice place to stand, where we'd been for the past forty-five minutes. He was only now telling me about how he'd gotten started in the boating business.  
  
"Yes." he said, eyes unfocused as he gazed out at the sea, hands folded, forearms on the railing. "That's when my Uncle Bill sent me to Harland and Wolff for their five-year program."  
  
I gave a low, looped whistle. Five years was no piece of cake, especially with ship builders. They took no crap from anyone; it took a lot to earn their respect. "Those are the ones that are designed for people with the intention of high positions in the company, right?"  
  
"Right." he glanced toward me, his eyes shining. "Uncle wanted me to end up like him, and have two controlling owners in the family."  
  
"Wait a minute--" a spark of recognition flared. "-- you said Uncle Bill-- you don't mean Baron William J. Pirrie?"  
"Good Lord." his grin was enormous as he looked at me; I blushed. "You know it all. Yes, that's the Baron." he shifted his weight, still smiling. "Anyway, the program lasted five years, but I was shuffled around every few months. The last year and a half, I was in the drawing room."  
  
"The best part." I said, almost wistfully. It would have been heaven on earth to get   
  
instruction on how to put your ideas about ships on paper, and to design your own.  
  
"It was." he agreed. "Nothing but blueprints, and punching out layouts and ideas. And the people I worked with. . . they were extraordinary." He was practically glowing, just as he had been all afternoon. It seemed to have been a long time since he'd shared all of this, if at all. "The best comrades a man could as for." He smiled gently at me, his voice softening. "I wish you could've been there with me, Carrie."  
  
Ho-lee shit.  
  
I didn't even know what to say, but I managed, "I wish I could have been there, too." I thought for a moment, and realized how much fun we would have had. I bit back a smile. And how much trouble we could have gotten into.  
  
"About ten or eleven years ago," he was continuing with his tale, his gaze now locked with mine instead of the ocean's. "I became a member of the I.N.--" he paused. "You do know of the I.N.A., the--"  
  
"Institution of Naval Architects." I finished for and with him, and we both grinned. "Yes, I know of it."  
  
He shook his head slightly, eyes twinkling. "Well, I've been working there, bringing this--" he gestured toward the deck. "-- and other ships to life, along with Bruce Ismay." He lowered his voice and added, "Slimy git."   
  
I grinned. "How so?"  
  
Thomas wrinkled his nose and let out a bitter sigh. "Oh, the man thinks he's king of the world for having the idea about Titanic, but he doesn't much know his numbers. The whole project, he mostly sat 'round on his derriere and whined at how slow the progress was coming."  
  
"Ouch." I knew how bad slackers could get. They never lasted long.  
  
"He kept wanting longer shifts for the men working, but a man can only do so much work." his eyes softened as he glanced at me. "I'm sure you're well aware."  
  
I met his stare. He was right-- countless times I'd seen my friends crumple to the ground from exhaustion in the shipyards, and twice it had been me. Several had been killed when they'd dozed on the scaffolding. That was before the new owner took over, six months after I'd entered the company. I nodded, slightly-- I was indeed well aware. God, how Thomas understood.  
  
He seemed to notice that he'd hit a chord, but continued, slowly. "At the most grueling stretch of work, Ismay was getting nine hours of sleep each night with a satin pillow under his head, while the rest of the workers and I were averaging about a third of that per night."  
  
"Jesus." I breathed reverently. It seemed that Thomas was a lot stronger than anyone gave him credit for.   
  
  
  
"Well, it had to be done." he appreciated my concern, but it was only work. "And I got through it, didn't I?"  
  
I smiled at him, loving this man. "Yes, you certainly did."  
  
"And anyway, I didn't mind the work. I love this ship-- she's the first that I really worked on myself. I've shed my sweat and blood so that she can stay afloat. And-- well, I'm sure you know the feeling-- there's a bond that goes on when you put that much into it."  
  
I knew exactly what he meant, and I knew that saying he'd shed his blood was no exaggeration. I'd gotten numerous cuts and bruises on the ships we'd worked on, and rather than being angry, I'd felt as though I were part of the ship, as though we shared a connection of some sort.  
  
He smiled a little. "If I'm remembered at all in history, I want it to be for the Titanic. I'm working hard as I can to smooth out the little mistakes-- I've already become occupied with taking down notes about the imperfections on my ship."  
  
"Impossible." I said shortly, but quietly, looking down at the sea far below us. "It's perfect. Nothing could be wrong with it."  
  
There was the slightest of pauses. I looked back up at him, and he'd been watching me, as he was now, but it was his turn to look down. "Thank you." he murmured, looking almost sad. "It does my heart well to hear you say that, Carrie Stevenson." He put emphasis on the word "you".  
  
"Me?" I said, touched at the way he'd taken my compliment. I hoped this was the way he saw me when I'd found myself at a loss for words the other day.   
  
He looked up, eyes gentle, sincere. "Yes. You."  
  
That hit home.  
  
To keep myself from saying something stupid, I took in a deep breath, then said, "You mentioned taking notes-- is that what's in that book you've been carrying around?"  
  
"Yes, actually." he pulled it out of his pocket, holding it as though it were a Bible.   
  
"May I?" I asked.  
  
"By all means." he passed it to me.  
  
On the first page was information and statistics about the Titanic herself. Nine hundred and twelve feet long, eleven stories high, capacity for two thousand and two hundred people, etc. On the second page was there the notes began. In sharp, quick letters was the message: Pebble dashing on promenade-- too dark. Beneath that: Stateroom hat racks-- I paused in my reading. The sentence read, Coat room hat racks carry too many screws, but he'd made an error. Instead of spelling 'carry' as it should have been, it was written as "Carrie", with the "C" capitalized and everything, just like my name. Had it been a simple mistake? Did his spelling just plain suck? Or had he perhaps been thinking of me when he'd written it?  
  
I had to know.   
  
"You think the stateroom hat racks carry too many screws?"  
  
"Yes, they look rather--" he stopped quite suddenly, then continued, his voice fairly unsteady. "-- rather crowded."  
  
"They do." I agreed. He was remembering his mistake. "I saw them in Mrs. Peckdash's room. Not to terrible, but still." Not wanting to embarrass him, I turned the page. Before I could read another word, however, the trumpets were announcing supper from the entrance to B Deck.. "Dinner." I said, closing the book, passing it back to him.   
  
"That's another thing I'm going to fix." Thomas muttered. "Damn horns-- sounds as if one's marching into battle rather than going to dinner."  
  
I grinned. "I'm going to go find Mrs. Peckdash."  
  
"I'm going to go get changed. Meet you at the B Deck stairs at six o'clock?"  
  
"Sounds good to me." I said, grinning at him. "Thanks."  
  
"You're quite welcome." He smiled, calm and quiet, almost lovingly. "See you there."  
  
And we departed.  
  
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
  
I finally stared at my reflection in the mirror, shocked to the bone. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson of old, the one who ran around in denim workpants and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson whose common appearance featured hair bursting out of its tying cords, sweat from the grueling work shining on her face and neck, hands streaked with black engine oil. Gone was the girl who slept under bridges with her friends Jack and Fabrizio, who wore plain calico skirts and starchy shirts.   
  
The girl that stared back at me was a new woman. A lady stood there, not a tomboyish child with no home and no money. I hardly recognized her, with her hair all gorgeous and her makeup perfect. "Thank you." I breathed to Mrs. Peckdash, as much as I could due to the tight corset. "Thank you so much."  
  
"Not a problem." Peckdash assured me. "Now step into these."  
  
I stepped into the shoes. They were slightly-- very slightly-- too small, but they looked pretty good, and they matched the dress. I took a step, and saw immediately what she meant by the shoes restricting my movements.   
  
"When you walk," she said, fixing pins in her hair in front of her own mirror. "take small steps, and put one foot directly in front of the other."  
  
I tried it. "That's really weird." I told her. I had to admit, though-- it did look like how the first class ladies moved.   
  
"But you've got it down." she smiled at me in the mirror. "Now go run along. You look marvelous."  
  
With a final thank-you, I was out the door.  
  
I walked as Peckdash had instructed, but didn't so much keep one foot exactly in front of   
  
the other. I felt rather uncomfortable, with the neck of my dress lower than I was used to, but a lot of the women I passed had an even lower swoop to their outfit, so I did my best not to complain. I smiled at anyone who would catch my eye, and actually received a lot of smiles in return.  
  
When I reached the wooden and glass door to B Deck, the steward there pulled it open for me. "Good evening, miss." he said, his accent English and refined. No stranger had ever opened a door for me; this had to be first class for sure.  
  
"Thanks." I said, passing through the door, giving him the best smile I was capable of. I headed for the stairs, holding my back straight, praying that I still looked alright.   
  
And then I saw him.  
  
Thomas was standing about a fourth of the way up the stairs, his small olive book out, a pen scribbling another message onto the paper. His back was half turned as he faced the banister; he didn't see me. I gulped, took in a steadying breath, and moved forward. When I was two steps behind him, I said, grinning, "Is the wood grain too coarse?"  
  
At the sound of my voice Thomas turned, a large smile growing on his face, and then he froze mid-turn. His eyes stayed on mine for a split second, then searched the rest of my face, saw my elegant hair, traveled quickly over my gown, then finally returned to my own eyes. "Carrie." he said softly, his notebook frozen in his hands as the rest of him. It was as though he were staring at a holy relic-- he was in awe.  
  
I felt extremely self-conscious, knowing I was blushing like crazy. "Well?" I said finally, tugging a little at my skirt. "Did Peckdash do alright?"  
  
"Hey, Tommy boy!"   
  
Speak of the devil; Mrs. Peckdash was gliding down the stairs, her arm though a tall, bearded man's, grinning as she looked at Thomas.   
  
It obviously took Thomas effort to look away from me. "Good-- good evening, Mrs. Peckdash. And Mr. Peckdash."  
  
Mrs. Peckdash grinned. "She look alright, Thomas?" she asked, beaming at me.  
  
Thomas looked back to me, eyes still wide, but unbelievably warm and kind, a smile tugging at his lips. "She's beautiful." He spoke quietly, meaning each word.  
  
I let out a relieved breath, unable to help the grin that spread on my face. He'd called me beautiful. No one had ever done that before. "Thank you." I said to Thomas. "I was worried you didn't like it."  
  
"Didn't--" he shook his head, bewildered, as his eyes poured into mine. "-- didn't like it? You could dress in rags for all I care, and I'd still. . ." he halted that line real quick, but it still made my heart jump. ". . . but it's just a shock, seeing you like this. . ."  
  
I grinned at him. "You don't look so bad yourself." He didn't. His coat and tails made him look so handsome. "Nice tux."  
  
"Thank you." he, too, was blushing again.  
  
Peckdash was still grinning. "See you around, Andrews."  
  
"Good-- good-bye." Thomas said, still looking at me.   
  
"Well, thanks." I told Thomas, still blushing tremendously. "I'd still rather be back in those work pants in the shipyard. You could cover them with engine oil and I'd still take them over this."  
  
He grinned, offering his elbow. I took it, and we moved down the stairs. "How bad is the corset?" he murmured near my ear, so that none of the other couples would hear.  
  
"It hurts like hell," I said back, just as quiet, tingling from the feel of his breath so close to my skin. "But it's sure worth it."  
  
As he'd done this afternoon, he placed his free hand over mine on his elbow, and squeezed it. A little surprised at this display of affection, but deeply touched by it, I squeezed back, and we made our way toward the dining room. It was down another flight of stairs we went before emerging in the dining hall. My God, was it elegant.   
  
He spoke then, as we picked our way through the crowd. "Don't worry about remembering any of the people I introduce you to on the way to our seats. All you need to feel concern about is the people we're going to be sitting with. And I don't mind saying that most of them are some of the meaner dogs I mentioned last night. . ."  
  
I was happy just to listen to him speak. Each person he introduced me to had a refined and lovely accent; I was stuck with American slang. I didn't mind, however-- I was proud of my country, and I held my head up and smiled to prove it. "How'm I doing?" I murmured to Tom after he gestured to the table we were sitting at, twenty feet away.   
  
"Excellent." he whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes twinkling. "They love you."  
  
I looked back at him. "Thank you for doing this."  
  
"Don't thank me yet," he said quietly. "The worst is yet to come. . ."   
  
We'd reached the rather large table, with seating for about fifteen or so. Some of its occupants I had met before; Thomas finally drew my hand from his arm and pulled out a chair for me, which was right next to him, all the while murmuring which occupants were which. I was in between him and an overweight woman.   
  
"Molly," Thomas said, sitting down beside me, leaning across to speak to the large woman. "I'd like to introduce you to Miss Carrie Stevenson. She'll be dining with us tonight. Carrie, this is Mrs. Molly Brown."  
  
Molly grinned at me and held out her hand for me to shake it. "Welcome aboard, Carrie. Nice to eat with you."  
  
I was a little shocked by her straightforwardness, but was glad to find someone who didn't really follow the strict rules of conduct of first class. "Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Same here."  
  
"Oh, quit the 'Mrs. Brown' rubbish." she said, her rebellious grin still shining. "The name's Molly."  
  
Suddenly I noticed the boy to her left. He was staring at me with his jaw slightly open, blonde-brown hair slicked back, blue eyes wide-- and then I realized: it was Jack.  
  
"Jack!" I said, grinning. "We did get seated at the same table!"  
  
"Nice eye," he said sarcastically, but was grinning himself. "Geez, you look good!"  
  
His compliment didn't make me blush near as much as Thomas' had. "Thanks."  
  
"Where'd you get that dress?"  
  
"Where'd you get that tux?" I retorted, then noticed Thomas following this conversation. "Jack, this is T-- Mr. Thomas Andrews. I was telling you about him earlier, remember?"  
  
"Nice to meet you." Thomas said, and he and Jack reached across the table to shake hands.  
  
"Likewise." Jack said, grinning, and at that moment, the countess (no joke) turned to Jack and began speaking to him.  
  
"You know this boy?" Thomas asked me quietly, so that no one else could hear.  
  
"Yeah." I said, taking a swallow of the water in the heavy goblet before me. "That's Jack Dawson-- he and his friend, Fabrizio-- I'm traveling with them." I stopped myself just in time from saying that I was rooming with them.  
  
"So you're-- you're good friends, yes?"  
  
When I looked at Thomas, I realized that he thought Jack and I were romantically interested in one another, and I immediately told him otherwise. "Yes, we're friends. But that's it." I put a lot of emphasis on the last words, but noticed that Thomas seemed somewhat relieved.  
  
So did that. . . did that mean. . .  
  
Suddenly Molly tapped her empty wine glass with her spoon. "Hey, everybody!" she called, and the table fell silent fairly quickly. She grinned at Thomas and I. "We've got a couple of people to introduce to our number this evening."   
  
Thomas stood up, and glanced down at me, smiling. I figured it would have been rude to reach up, yank his arm, and hiss, Sit down!!!. "This is Carrie Stevenson. Carrie?" he offered his hand to me, smiling gently; I took it and stood, feeling even more self-conscious.   
  
"Hi." I gave a small wave at the rest of the table; they greeted me with quiet hello's and good evening's.   
  
A pretty girl on Thomas's other side then introduced Jack; I assumed that this must be Rose, the girl with whom Jack was so taken. I noticed the man who'd Thomas had told me was Cal Hockley staring at Jack with extreme distaste.  
  
I also noticed that Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, mother Rose, shared Cal's deep feeling of dislike for Jack. I felt ready to jump out of my seat when she said casually but scathingly, "Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Dawson. I hear they're quite good on this ship."  
  
I was all ready to snap back, but two things happened: one, I realized that saying something while I was pissed off was not a good idea in front of these people, and I'd embarrass Tom; two, Jack came back with a sarcastic reply. "The best I've seen, ma'am." he said calmly. "Hardly any rats."  
  
Cal muttered something about Jack joining us from the third class, and then the thin mustachioed man on the other end of the table, Mr. Ismay, began jabbering about how first, second, and third class had exceptional rooms. "The ship was designed for luxury, and no matter what the class, that is what the passenger will find."  
  
"Your ship really is lovely," the countess said daintily, and suddenly I felt a burst of pride for Thomas. It was Thomas's work that had this thing floating, not Ismay's.  
  
"Yes, well, tell that to Thomas." Ismay smiled falsely. "His blood and soul are on this ship. On paper, she's mine, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews."  
  
Thomas dipped his head slightly, a gentle smile on his features, even though his knuckles were white on the armrests of his chair. "Thank you, Bruce."   
  
I chose that moment to look down at my plate, and suddenly realized that there were at least a dozen utensils on either side of it. "Oh, shit." I whispered, so quiet that no one heard except for Mr. Andrews, who leaned slightly to the left, his smile broadened.  
  
"Start on the outside." he murmured. "It's not that hard."  
  
A white-haired waiter tried to spoon out caviar to me; I declined as politely as I could. Fish eggs didn't sound very appetizing at the moment. Not that they ever did. In the midst of this, Jack was delivering a kind of speech; I found myself being proud of him, as though he were a brother.  
  
"And you, Miss Stevenson." Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, it seemed, was growing tired of taunting Jack. "Where is it that you are roomed?"  
  
I thought of lying, but was tired of Jack taking all of the hit. "To tell you the truth, ma'am, I'm traveling with Mr. Dawson. I'm down in steerage as well." I could see that she was trying to hold back her shock and disgust, and somehow it made me sit up straighter, and hold my chin up. "Mr. Andrews was kind enough to offer his assistance to me yesterday, and invited me to dinner."  
  
"Very kind of you, Mr. Andrews." J.J. Astor said, with a curt nod, and turned back to his caviar.  
  
Mrs. DeWitt Bukater wasn't finished. "So you, as well, travel homeless?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." I said, meeting her somewhat cold stare with a kind one, trying to behave properly. "But I find work where I can, and hunker down around where I work. Mostly it's along the east coast, because a lot of my working has been with the boatyards." I noticed that Thomas was sitting very still, glaring at Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, and I realized he was trying to keep himself calm. On impulse I laid my hand across his on the armrest of his chair. It was out of sight, but I was trying to tell him that I was fine, don't do something stupid. "Then I met up with Jack, and we started traveling around."   
  
"It's not proper for a woman to work." DeWitt Bukater continued. "I believe it's rather vulgar." At this I felt Thomas's hand tighten under mine. I squeezed it, but it was probably out of my own rage.  
  
However, I refused to show my anger with her. It was exactly what she wanted. I set my teeth, but smiled. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll remember that next time I need work to keep myself from starving."  
  
Ismay changed subjects, immediately bringing up the weather.   
  
I relaxed my grip on Thomas' hand just as he relaxed his own hand. I could have sworn I felt it trembling. "Carrie," he whispered, shame in his eyes as they burned into the edge of his plate. "I'm so sorry. I didn't bring you down here to humiliate you. . . I didn't. . ." He looked up, features pleading.  
  
"I know you didn't." I whispered back, trying to make it show in my face that I forgave what didn't need to be forgiven. "If anyone should feel stupid, it's DeWitt Bukater."  
  
"I'm going to speak with her after dinner." he murmured, looking relieved, but still a little upset. "That was entirely inappropriate of her."  
  
"Please," I whispered back. "Don't make a big deal of this. I don't want an enemy."  
  
"And what's her average speed, Thomas?" Bruce Ismay was speaking again.  
  
"We'll discuss this later," Thomas murmured to me, then turned to Bruce. "We're averaging a steady twenty knots. . ."   
  
The meal was large and excellent; I actually managed not to slop anything down my front. Finally, I heard Rose whispering to Jack. "Next it'll be brandies in the smoking room. "  
  
"It's true." Andrews murmured, just loud enough for me and me alone to hear. "They all go and smoke and drink and talk politics. I never go, though. Usually I just head back to my quarters."  
  
Finally, a man stood up whose name I couldn't remember. "Gentlemen," he announced. "Would you care to join me for a brandy in the smoking room?"  
  
Ismay thanked us ladies for "the pleasure of our company", then he and the rest of the men stood up to head for the billiards. Jack, passing me on his way to Rose, said quietly, "You coming down to that party?"  
  
"You bet your ass I am." I said back, and was suddenly struck with an idea. "Can I take Andrews?"  
  
"I'm taking Rose." he said in reply with a mischievous grin.   
  
Andrews stood, and I with him, and he smiled at me. I smiled back. "Tom, thank you so much for this. I appreciate it. I enjoyed staying with you."  
  
"And I with you." he said, raising my hand to his lips to kiss it.  
  
A jolt of lightening seemed to shoot through my stomach as his lips met my bare knuckles, even though I knew it was just manners. Looking back up at me, his dark eyes were soft and friendly. "Tom," I said quietly. "Look, I don't. . . I don't know if you'd be interested, but you know the third-class general room?"  
  
"Very well." he assured me, eyes twinkling.  
  
"Well, we've been using it for parties of our own." I said. "I was just wondering if you'd like to come down and join us?" I caught myself. "I mean, I know it's not very proper for me to be asking you to a party, you know, but--"  
  
He half laughed again, and his grin was dazzling. "Carrie," he said gently. "I'd love to."  
  
We were heading past the band when I suddenly realized that I wanted to compliment on their performance. They played such pretty music, and I'd never before been serenaded during a meal. I tugged on Thomas' arm. "Can I thank them?  
  
He smiled down at me. "I think they'd like that. I'll introduce you." We stood by their stand until they finished the current waltz they were playing, and then I was introduced to each of them by Thomas.   
  
"You guys are really good," I told them. "It's nice to hear some good music."  
  
"Thank you, Miss Stevenson." the lead violinist said, embarrassed, but rather pleased. "We didn't know anyone listened."  
  
"I certainly do." I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for them. "It's beautiful."  
  
"God bless you." said the pianist, smiling. "You made our week."  
  
"You've a good heart, Carrie." Thomas murmured as we headed for the general room, eyes kind and smiling.   
  
It's all yours, I ached to tell him. But I didn't. 


	4. Chapter Four

Author's Note: YEEEEEEEEEEAH, Chapter Four! We are moving right along! I dunno about you guys, but a lot of times, I feel it hard to finish a story, but this one has just been smooth sailing. Haha. Smooth sailing. . . Titanic. Ship joke. OKAY then. I'd just like to extend a huge and hearty THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of my reviewers. You guys rock.. . . the boat. Hahaha another Titanic joke. Alright, I better stop before I hurt myself. I'm waayyy too hyper here. A story note: The arm wrestling scene with Tommy and Bjorn. . . it's not the one where Rose goes, "So you think you're big tough men,", etc-- Remember how Tommy says, "Two out of three! Two out of three!". . . well, the one I have here is round number two. And in Chapter Three, I was reading back over it, and I made all these typos and mistakes. . . sorry :-( Oh, and I was going to say-- I noticed this totally sweet part in Part I. When Jack and Fabrizio are going through the hallway looking for their rooms, Fabrizio and the chick he dances with later in the movie pass each other, and they both look back at each other. Gaaa it was so sweet. Anyvay. . . don't forget to review when you're done reading. This isn't one of my favorite chapters, but maybe you guys will think differently-- tell me! lol More will be up soon, I promise. Enjoy! Millie grazie! 

FOUR

"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed happily over the noise of the music and talk of the steerage general room as Fabrizio and I again knocked into another couple on the floor. We were holding each other fairly close, as the steps required, but both of us were having fun nonetheless. "Sorry!"  


Fabrizio was laughing as the dance ended, and he bowed. "_Millie grazie_, _ma bambina_."

"_Prego_." I replied, grinning back. "I'm going to go find Thomas."  


"Suit yourself," he called, and headed off, probably to find the blonde he'd been dancing with earlier. I headed for one of the low tables where a cheerful Thomas was seated, his jacket draped around the chair behind him. My breath caught in my chest as I noticed just how handsome he looked in that white shirt, the sleeves billowing a bit but rolled up to just below the elbow, dark suspenders standing out against the white fabric. I forced myself to continue toward him without faltering (which was actually pretty easy; I'd ditched the painful shoes Peckdash had me wearing and was now running around in my stockings).

The band picked up it's next tune, and I did the only thinkable thing. "Come on." I took Thomas's hand and pulled him into the fray.

"Wait a moment, Carrie!" he barely had time to put down his beer. We stopped in the middle of the dance floor; he looked somewhat worried. "I don't. . . I don't know if I can do this as well as you."  


"Sure you can." I said, gasping his one hand, putting my other on his shoulder, grinning at him. "Come on, you can stand on my feet." I remembered then as he smiled slightly. "And besides, you'll be fine. You're Irish!"  


He glanced around at the other couples. "Yes, but. . . I haven't done this in years."

I was still getting used to the feel of his hand in mine. "You'll be great. It doesn't matter how you do; no one else will look twice."

He nodded, just a little, and that ever-present smile tugged at his lips. "Alright." Thomas again glanced at the other dancers, and his other hand tentatively slid around my waist; I had to work to breathe properly. His hand was warm and steady. Our faces were unbelievably close; I looked up at him again and my breath caught in my chest. If I'd have leaned in a mere three inches, we would have been lip-locked. I forced myself to look at his eyes instead of his lips. "Let's go!"  


And we were off, the music streaming from the band's instruments. I didn't know the steps at all to this dance, but I did what Fabrizio and I had done and just made them up as we went. Thomas caught on quickly, his grin large and happy as we danced back and forth and around the room. I realized that he was an excellent dancer. "You told me you sucked!" I cried to him over the din.

"I thought I did!" he called back, eyes shining with mirth.

I caught sight of the almost-empty stage in the center of the room; only Fabrizio and his blonde were there, dancing, and doing a pretty good job of it. I glanced back toward Thomas, who immediately saw the look in my eye and what I'd been staring at. "Oh, no." he said, but he was grinning, nearly laughing. "No. Absolutely not!"

"Ah, where's your sense of fun?" I cried, pulling him along in the direction of the stage.

"I left it in Southampton!" he said, beat but still grinning as we stepped up onto the wooden platform scarred with scuffmarks.

We'd gotten separated in our attempts to get onto the stage; now we pulled each other close again and picked up the steps. I was loving every second of this; he seemed to be, as well. The crowd around the stage cheered Thomas, me, Fabrizio, and his girl as we invented steps to a dance we'd never even heard played before. 

Both Thomas and I couldn't stop grinning as we whirled each other around the floor, moving in time to the music. At one point he withdrew his arm from my waist, and I took back my arm from his shoulder, and we both performed a series of arm sweeps and swoops; I was twirled around, pulled along by his hands linked with mine, both of us laughing.

The dance finally ended; we applauded with the rest of the people, grinning and hot. "Nother beer?" I asked him as the band struck up a new song and we sucked in deep gulps of air.

"I'll need it if we're to keep doing this," he answered with a grin, and I took his hand in mine and we looked for vacant seats and drinks. The table I found was nearly full, but with a few empty chairs. Thomas and I took them, and grabbed two of the beers. It was at this point that I looked and saw Tommy Ryan, Jack and Fabrizio's new friend, locked in a fierce arm-wrestling match with one of the Swiss men from our quarters, Bjorn Gundersen. I couldn't help but to root for Tommy. He was one hell of a friendly guy, from what I'd seen of him earlier. Neither man appeared to be winning, but both of their faces were red as they struggled to force the other's hand to the table.

"Now this," I called to Thomas. "is quality entertainment!"

He laughed, raising his glass to his lips, and drank deeply of the cheap beer. I watched him knock back gulp after gulp, somewhat amazed, but very amused. He caught my stare and grinned, lowering the glass. "I don't have Irish blood for nothing!" he joked, I laughed, having the time of my life.

We turned toward the arm wrestling match; I grinned, knowing that the only purpose of the match was for Tommy and Bjorn to show off. I'd been around men long enough to know that if there was a woman within a twenty foot radius, they'd be doing something to show their strength or skill. 

At last, Tommy's hand was forced backward, nearly knocking over Thomas' beer. "Cor!" Tommy cried, a grin stretched across his face, cigarette balanced between his teeth. We all laughed as he paid up for the bet he made, and then he turned to Thomas and I. "Dammit." he shook his head and took a long drag from the cigarette. "Shouldn'ta done tha, huh." 

"You were having fun, Ryan." I lifted an eyebrow, grinning. "That is, it _looked_ like you were having fun."  


"Aye, I was." he looked over to Thomas. "Gonna introduce me to your friend there, Carrie?"  


"Sorry," I apologized. "Tommy, this is Thomas Andrews. Thomas-- this is Tommy Ryan."  


They shook hands. "Pleasure to be meetin' ya." Tommy said, friendly grin in place.

"Same-- thank you, Mr. Ryan." Thomas said, smiling back.

"Oh, no." Tommy grinned. "Don't you be goin' all first-class on me. The name's Tommy. And if y'must call me by my last name, then leave out the mister part. We're all friends down here, Andrews."

Thomas had a wonderful smile on his face. "Thank you, Tommy."  


"Don't be thankin' me." Tommy said, smashing his cigarette into an ashtray. "I didn't set the customs system down here." He glanced up at me, savage grin still in place. "Oy, Carrie, Jack tol' me you were one hell of an arm wrestler."

If ever I had a hit list, Jack moved into first place on it, knocking Mrs. DeWitt Bukater out of the way. "You're just sore about losing." I said, wondering where I could find a cigarette of my own, trying to change the subject. "I'm no such thing."

"Well, you can't exactly be a softy working in the shipyards." This comment, to my surprise, came from Thomas, whose twinkling eyes met my surprised ones.

I looked back and forth between him and Tommy. "C'mon, Carrie." Tommy urged, hopeful grin on his face. "I want to see how strong y'are 'gainst the likes of me. You know you want to." 

After a moment of glancing between Tommy's hopeful face and Thomas' amused one, I gave in. "Well, I'll do it. As long as we don't bet anything."  


"Fair enough." Tommy rested his elbow on the table, and held out his hand. "Y'ready?"  


"I was born ready." I shot back, resting my elbow in front of his. Our hands settled around one another's. Tommy's grip was shockingly tight; I could see the muscles bulging in his forearms. I prayed I wasn't doing something stupid.

Bjorn noticed what we were doing and started gibbering in Swedish to his friends, who gathered around again, pulling other guys with them. 

"Want I should be referee?" Thomas asked, leaning forward, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of my chair.

"Sure." I said, noticing that Thomas's action made him a whole lot closer to me than he had been. I then turned toward Tommy, my grin slowly melting away. "Say when, Thomas."  


Tommy and I both shifted slightly when Thomas said, "Ready. . ."

My eyes were locked with Tommy's. His grin had faded, and was replaced by a look of extreme determination and overall tough-guy-ness. The crowd around us was silent.

"Set. . ."

I gritted my teeth. Please don't let me make a fool of myself in front of Andrews. . . 

"Go!"

Force like I'd never felt was exerted on my hand as the crowd began yelling at hooting, but I returned just what was given, and kept Tommy's and my palms right where they'd started. I tried pushing his over backwards, but nothing happened. My arm trembled from the effort, as did his. "Blimey," he gritted.

The noise from the crowd was filling my ears as they picked one of us to root for; the music in the background was completely drowned out by it.

It was hard to draw breath without gasping; I took them in slow and deep, focusing on forcing his hand just a little more to the side. "Come on, Carrie." the voice carried through the shouts of the men; it was Thomas. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his left hand still gripping the back of my chair, the other arm on the edge of the table. He was watching this fight very closely. His voice gentle but insistent, he urged, "You can do it. . . look at him, he's hardly pushing on your hand at all. . . you're ten times stronger than he is. . ."

The whole time he spoke I could nearly feel the reserve of strength building in me. But I had to keep it; I couldn't let it go yet, not until I was sure it was strong enough to overtake Tommy. 

Thomas was still speaking, and he was less than a foot away. "You can do it, Carrie. I believe in you. I know you can beat him." he paused, almost as if he thought he'd said to much.

"Jesus." I said to him through clenched teeth, my eyes still boring into Tommy's. "Don't stop that."  


A definite smile in his voice now, Thomas continued. "Come on. . . I know you can do this! Think of your boys at Garrison and Wheeler. Don't let them down!" he added, so quietly that I thought I'd imagined it, "Don't let _me_ down."

"Haa-ah!"  


I cried out in triumph as I smashed Tommy's hand down to the table. The crowd around us erupted in cheers and hollers; Tommy was laughing again, shaking his head. We shook hands (squeezing a little tighter than we should have) as the crowd continued to applaud and hoot, and I turned to Thomas, who was all grins. "Thank you." I said quietly, grinning at him, shaking out my hand.

"I was only trying to help." his one hand still rested on the back of my chair; we were very close because of it. His eyes were so gentle, and this time I couldn't convince myself that that wasn't love I was seeing there. 

"And you did a damn good job." I assured him, clenching my hands to keep them from shaking.

"Thank you." He smiledas the band struck up a slow tune. "Oh," he said quietly, eyes taking on a far-away look. "This song. . ." he turned to me. ". . . my mum and dad used to talk about how this was the song they first danced to."

I smiled a little. "They back in Ireland?"  


"Thank the good Lord, yes they are." he said, then returned the smile, soft and warm. "Carrie, would you. . ." his voice faltered; he cleared his throat. "Could I ask you to dance with me?"

I met his gentle eyes and wondered if it were humanely possible to say no. "Please." I managed to say. 

He stood up and offered his hand; I took it and he pulled me to my feet. We walked out to the floor and Thomas glanced at the other dancers. I brought my arm back up to his shoulder and took his left hand in my right. His right hand then slid around my waist again, once more warm and steady. We were even closer than before, and I was sure I was blushing like a fiend. We revolved slowly around the floor to the music, our faces mere inches apart. My heart was pounding like a piston, and I was sure that I was shaking. I forced myself to continue looking at him. His eyes were full of care. . . and full of love. His face was gentle, so kind. "Carrie." his voice was husky, quiet.

"I'm listening." I said, and remembered he'd said those exact same words earlier.

"Give me one good reason why I--"

"Thomas Andrews!"

We both froze, recognizing the voice, both of our eyes shocked. We turned toward the voice; my hand slid lower on his shoulder and our clasped hands dropped, but Thomas's hand remained on my waist, and it tightened slightly.

Bruce Ismay stood nearly right beside us, looking both horrified and disgusted. "Thomas." he lowered his voice. "What are you doing?"

I turned back to look at Thomas, whose shoulders slowly rose and fell as he tried to control his temper. "What does it matter?" he said, voice low and angry, eyes not meeting mine. 

"I'd like a word." Bruce said sourly, one eyebrow raised as he stared at me in distaste, reminding me strongly of Mrs. DeWitt Bukater.   


I turned to look at Thomas, my face beet red. His didn't look much better. "Carrie--" he began.

"I'll wait." I said quietly, unable to meet his stare as our hands separated. "I'm sorry."  


Ismay turned on his heel; Thomas actually touched my cheek, his hand so gentle. "You're not the one who should be apologizing." he murmured.

I looked up at him, surprised at his touch, but warmed to the bone by it. I found myself putting my hand over his, staring into those concerned and sorry eyes. "Thank you."

He nodded, just slightly, then followed Bruce, slowly drawing his hand off of my face. 

Conveniently, Fabrizio was waltzing by. "Fabri!" I grabbed his shirt and accidentally pulled him so hard that he ran into me.

"I thought you liked Andrews, not me!" he cried.

"Sorry." I quickly pushed him away again, then stood close so that no one would hear, spoke into his ear. "He and a mustached guy are going over to speak by the stairs. See them?"  


He looked. "Si, si."  


"Can you go listen in?"  


"Wait here." he hurried off; I stood back, feeling nervous somehow. The dance ended, and another lively one was struck up by the band. I wondered what in the world Thomas was going to say when he'd asked me to give him one good reason why he. . . why he what?

Within moments, Fabrizio was back, but he was smiling. "Okay," he said. "This is what I heard. The man with the mustache was asking Andrews what he was doing, and Andrews said he was hanging out with you. Mustache asked why Andrews would hang out with third-class trash--"  


My hands balled into fists.

"-- and Andrews got upset. He said that Mustache should wait to get to know people before he looked at what class they were in. Then Mustache said Andrews was going to get in trouble, and Andrews told Mustache to mind--" Fabrizio grinned. "--I am quoting this-- to 'for God's sake, mind his own bloody damn business'. Then they started talking so quiet I couldn't hear it."  


"Thank you." I told Fabrizio, feeling a little odd. Thomas had not only stuck up for himself, but for me, too. "If there's anything I can do to repay you--"

"I'll tell you." he assured me, Italian accent thick as ever, bright eyes shining. "Okay, I'm running now-- here comes Andrews."

Thomas was approaching, Ismay disappearing up the stairs in the background. Thomas looked terribly sad. "Carrie, I'm so sorry." he murmured, staring at the floor. His voice was hurt. "I told you that Ismay was a good-for-nothing git, and he's only reinstating his title."

"My God, Thomas." I said, surprised he was feeling so guilty. "It's not your fault. Please don't apologize." He took in a deep breath, and nodded, his eyes finally meeting mine. I smiled at him. "Come on. Let's go drink some more beer, forget this happened, and make fools out of ourselves on the dance floor."

He nodded again, looking relieved. "Sounds like a plan." he let out a long breath, but managed to smile. "Lead the way."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Thomas took me back to my rooms later, and when we reached my cabin, I suddenly realized that I hadn't led him back to the girl's cabin, but the one I was sharing with Jack and Fabrizio. Luckily he hadn't seemed to notice, and he took the hand that was on his elbow carefully in his free one, and removed it from his arm, after which he kissed it again. "I'd like to see you again." he said softly.

"Same here." I told him, staring into those deep brown eyes.

"Do you-- do you plan on going to services tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah," I said, knowing he meant the several church services in the morning. "What about you?"  


"I was going to go to the eight o'clock." he said. "Then I've a tour to start with the DeWitt Bukaters and a friend or two of theirs after they go to the ten o'clock. Could I meet you for the service, and then we could get breakfast?"

I grinned. This was unbelievable. "Sounds good to me. Thank you. And-- and thank you again for this evening. I really did enjoy it."  


"As did I." he assured me gently.

"Well." my smile was shy now; I felt that way. "Good night."  


"Good night, Carrie."  


I pushed open my door to see Bjorn and Olaus Gundersen already snoring in their bunks, Fabrizio propped up against the wall on our bunk, struggling to read a small pamphlet.

"Carrie, where've you been?" he wanted to know.

"Great Scott." Tom whispered, eyes wide as he stared at me. "You sleep in a cabin with _three men_?"  


"Four." I said, embarrassed. "Jack's gotta have someplace to sleep."

"Nothing wrong with that, Meestare Andrews." Fabrizio assured him. "We wouldn't touch the girl."  


"They don't, and they wouldn't dare." I assured Thomas, who was still looking rather dumbstruck. "Besides, otherwise I wouldn't fit. There aren't any extra bunks."  


He was still looked concerned; he didn't like the arrangements. "The women's part of--"

"We've been traveling together for two years," Fabrizio said. "We weren't about to split up now, not on our way to America." his grin shone brightly again at the name of our destination. "And we were worried that something would happen if we were apart."

Thomas swallowed, looking down at me. "Well. . . alright, but. . ."

"Any better suggestions?" I asked. "It _is_ kind of cramped."  


"Actually," He only had to think for an instant. "Yes. My stateroom has an extra room, and Lord knows I don't need it."  


"Oh, Thomas, I couldn't." I insisted, trying to hide the shock I felt at actually being offered a room by him. "I'd be completely in the way--" 

"The last thing you'd be," he assured me quietly, "is in the way."

I looked toward Fabrizio, wanting to accept Thomas's invitation. "That okay?"  


The Italian was grinning from ear to ear. "_Si_!" 

"Alright, then." I said, suddenly realizing that I'd be sleeping in first-class-- forget first class, I'd be sleeping in a flipping _stateroom_! "Thanks, Thomas."  


"No problem, I assure you." he smiled back, looking thoroughly relieved. "On the way back we'll stop at Mrs. Peckdash's. She's likely to have some dressing gowns for you."

Mrs. Peckdash was more than generous, offering not only nightclothes but daywear for Sunday, as well as enough to last me until the ship docked Tuesday night. I showered her with thanks, and then Thomas and I talked the whole way to his stateroom.

"Right here," he said finally, turning into a tiny alcove with a door set at the end, drawing a key ring from his pocket. He unlocked the white-washed door before him and pushed it open, then allowed me to step inside first.

My jaw dropped open. While looking much like Mrs. Peckdash's room, this one was far more grand in scale. A huge writing desk, covered in blueprints, some half unfolded, others rolled up completely, stood off to one side. The wooden paneling was awash with golden trims every which way, and there were windows all along the back wall, which brought the private promenade deck into view. A crystal chandelier was magnificently lit on the ceiling. The room itself was decked with armchairs and sofas. "Expecting company?" I managed.

Thomas was smiling openly at the look of astonishment on my face. "Not quite." he said, hanging up his jacket in a small closet. "Come on. I'll show you your rooms."  


"Was that plural?" I asked faintly, following him to the side of the room where he went through an archway to another door, this one sporting wood paneling like the walls 

"Yes," Thomas grinned. "It was." He threw it open to reveal a thirty-by-twenty foot room, a large, king-sized bed in it, a small cosmetic table and dresser on one side of the room, a large wardrobe to the other side. Two, count 'em, two portholes were in the room, and dainty, gauzy curtains were tied back beside them. Another door, slightly ajar, led to a well-furnished bathroom.

"God in heaven." I breathed, turning to look at him. "_Thank _you."  


"Wasn't a problem." he assured me, eyes twinkling. "Feel free to take whatever you need."  


I smiled at him. "Thanks again, Thomas. This is great."  


He was absolutely scarlet under all of my thank-yous. "As I said before, Carrie. It isn't as though it's paining me to do this."  


"I know." I said gratefully. "But I mean it."  


"I know you do." he returned quietly, and smiled gently, eyes warm and kind. "Call me if you need anything." he ducked his head, so slightly, in a nod. "Good night."

  
"Night." I said, watching him smile as he closed the door behind him. I turned to the room, and realized that I'd like very much to try out the shower and bath. But one step forward reminded me that I was still trapped in my corset and gown. Suddenly I realized that I'd never be able to get out of them on my own, and it was much too late to ring for a maid. I looked back at the door toward where Thomas had left, and realized numbly that I had only one option.

I slowly opened the door to my room and poked my head out. Thomas was standing over his desk, staring down at a pile of notes. Somehow feeling as though I was intruding on something, I said quietly, "Thomas?"

He looked up quickly, startled a little, but relaxed immediately and smiled. "Yes?"  


I was blushing tremendously. "I'm sorry to interrupt--"  
  
"You weren't interrupting." he assured me, stepping away from the desk. 

"Alright, well. . ." I swallowed, one hand still hanging on the doorknob. "Listen, this is. . . this is really embarrassing, but my dress, and my corset-- I don't really know how to get out of them. They're all tied funny, and I just need them loosened enough to. . ." I trailed off. "Could you give me a hand?"  


Thomas blinked, once, and I noticed that his face was red as well. "Certainly." he moved forward; I stepped back into my room.

"Thanks." I said as he followed me inside, my throat dry. "You know how?"  
  
"I can figure it out."

I faced the bedpost as Mrs. Peckdash had instructed me to. "Thanks."  


"You're welcome." I felt his fingers take hold of the back of my dress, and find the tiny metal hooks that kept the back of it seamlessly together. I half wished I could see his face. "Thank you for taking me to the party this evening." he said. "I really enjoyed it."

My heart pounded as he unhooked the dress. "You're welcome. I had fun, too."

Done with the dress, I heard Thomas's hands travel back up to the corset. He untied the knot and loosened the string. I had to grit my teeth to keep from sucking in a sharp breath as his warm fingers brushed my bare skin. Goosebumps ran up my arms; I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that his shaky breathing behind me was normal. 

"That enough?" he said finally, voice slightly hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

"Yeah." I turned back to him, embarrassed as hell. He didn't look much better; his face was a deep scarlet. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Though still blushing, he seemed slightly surprised. "For what? What else could you have done?"

I blinked, and couldn't help the small smile growing on my face. "I dunno, I just. . ."

To my absolute shock, he leaned down and kissed my cheek, lips lingering there. "You're a fine lady," he murmured when he drew back, face only a few inches away. The smell of his aftershave and pipe smoke, was intoxicating. "And you need never be sorry in front of me."

And I only thought my heart was pounding before. I could still feel his lips on my cheek, how wonderful it was, knowing I would only need to turn my head three inches to the right for us to. . . I swallowed. "I wish I knew what to say." I told him quietly. 

"That was more enough." he assured me, and smiled gently, eyes wonderfully kind. "Good night, Carrie."  


"Night." I said again, and watched him go.

He closed the door softly behind him. I lowered myself onto the bed, still in shock. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud-- if this wasn't love, then what the hell was!? But another part of me wanted to just sit there and cry. No one ever in my life had ever done so much for me, had made me feel so wonderful-- no one had ever been in love with me. I was so thankful, and I wanted to repay Thomas, do something as special for him as he was doing for me-- but I couldn't even begin to comprehend what kind of an action would embody everything I loved him for.

I mulled over all this as I showered. Afterward, I pulled on my dressing gown, turned out most of the lights, and climbed in between the crisp but soft sheets. Never had I been in a bed so soft, or luxurious. I felt as though I were in a pool of feathers. The pillow was poofy and comfortable; the covers were thick, deliciously so. I pulled them up to my nose and turned to the side, closing my eyes.

In my dream, I was dancing with Bruce Ismay in a stairwell at uncomfortably close quarters. Thomas was the one who appeared and demanded to know what was going on, and then they got into an arm wrestling match, which was refereed by Mr. Murdoch. Thomas's hand was forced onto the table, only Murdoch declared HIM the winner. At this point, I woke up, and I glanced at the clock. It was one thirty, a mere hour after I'd climbed into bed. I tried to get back to sleep for a half an hour, but had no success. Restless, the entire day's events still fresh in my mind, I slipped out of bed, pulled on some socks, and walked to the door that led out to the private deck that was shared with the foyer and Thomas' rooms.

I shivered at how cold it was against my still-damp hair, but the air felt good, and it cleared my head. I pulled my dressing gown more tightly around me against the cold and then leaned on the open window, staring out at the calm sea, the sky twinkling with stars.

I thought of Thomas for awhile, and then cast a glance back toward the foyer where his desk sat. To my surprise, the lights were on, and he was leaning over the desk, scribbling something on a sheet of paper, a blue and white diagram before him. He was still fully clothed. I watched him as he leaned his head on his hand, stopped writing. He looked up at the wall in front of him; sensing he was about to turn my way, I quickly looked back toward the sea.

Sure enough, after several moments, I heard the door click open. "Carrie?" Thomas came out onto the deck beside me, and shivered slightly. "It's freezing out here. What's the matter?"  
  
"Nothing." I said truthfully, a little embarrassed to be caught with damp, tangled hair. "Just can't sleep."

He nodded, understanding. "Neither can I." he crossed his arms. "Why don't you come back inside? It's warmer, and insomnia is better overcome when you have someone to share it with."

I smiled at the comment. "Alright. Thanks." We headed back for the foyer; he held the door for me. I entered and somehow felt a little more relaxed. The lamplight created a soft, cozy yellow glow against the wood paneling, and Thomas' diagrams and blueprints were even more numerous and scattered than before.

I paused at the coffee table, on which a large blueprint rested. "Can I get you anything?" Thomas asked, refilling a pen with ink. 

"No, thanks." I slowly lowered myself onto the sofa, my eyes still glued on the diagram. It was at least four feet long, the ends held down by paperweights, and was a lengthwise cross-section of the ship. "Geez," I said, squinting at the tiny letters and delicate lines. "This is one hell of a nice blueprint."

He walked over, looking down at it, smiling. "Yes-- that one's my favorite. It was one of the ones we had tacked up in the drawing room when we were first developing _Titanic_."

"I've always loved looking at them," I said, my eyes traveling over the third class general room. "Even at the shipyards. I can spend hours looking at them. I just wish I knew more about it all."

I looked up, and his eyes met mine. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Do you want to learn?" his voice was quiet, with undertones of hopefulness.

"Would. . ." I couldn't believe his offer, and figured it'd be pretty creepy to holler, YES! ". . . would you teach me?" 

"Carrie." he said softly, eyes so kind. "All you need do is ask."

I asked.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"The bulkheads only go high as E Deck?" I said, a little surprised. Thomas and I were still seated on the sofa with the diagram before us, our shoulders less than three inches apart.

"Unfortunately." he said, letting out a long breath. "We wanted to make them go all the way up to A Deck, but I was overruled." I caught a trace of bitterness there in his voice.

I said, "Ismay again?"  


He nodded, a kind of sad smile on his features. "Indeed, it was Ismay." he managed a smile.

I swallowed, but spoke again, lowering my voice a little. "And was it also Ismay who ordered only twenty lifeboats?"

"You figured it out, eh?" he said quietly, eyes flickering from mine to the diagram. "Yes, that was him. He figured that too many of them would make the deck look too crowded."  


"Appearance, Thomas." I said, angry with Ismay, resting an elbow on my knee and my hand in my palm. "Looks. That's all he seems to give a shit about. If it ain't pretty-- even if it'll save some lives here and there-- ditch it."

Thomas's look was empathetic, understanding. "My uncle tells me that he's going to move Ismay along to lower position in the company."

"Good." I said, relieved. "Soon as he leaves, you get some more lifeboats on this thing."

"It's already in my notes," he assured me, then looked concerned. "Carrie, you're not worried about a disaster of some kind, are you?"

I had to smile. Truth to be told, I wasn't worried about a disaster. At all. "No." I said, gently as I could. "No, I'm not. I just. . . well, at Garrison and Wheeler one year, we sent out a ship that had lifeboats for only two-thirds of the passengers. Everyone figured it wasn't a big deal, but three voyages in, the thing sank. You wouldn't imagine how many law suits there were against G and W. They had three hundred people die that night. That's when the new manager stepped in, and since then, we've made sure to put enough lifeboats for everyone aboard onto each ship we sent out." My eyes were locked with his.

"Well, it won't take much work to load more on." he said, and smiled slightly. "Have you noticed the bits of metal on the boat deck, inside the first row of boats?"

In fact, I had noticed, but had paid them no means. "Yes, actually." A thought came to mind. "Those wouldn't be those new davit bits, would they?"

Thomas grinned. "Yes, they are. Latest and greatest technology-- anyway, they can take another row of boats, so. . . soon as Titanic gets back to Belfast, I'll work on that." he paused. "What about you, Carrie? What are your plans after we dock?"

I thought back to my list, and stared wistfully down at the diagram. "I'd love to get back with Garrison and Wheeler, and try to get into a better company position."

"D'you have a goal?"

"Yeah," I said, meeting his level gaze. "I want your job."

A slow smile spread on his face. "You do-- really?"

"I have for a long time." I said, and had to smile back. "But I don't know if they'd let me get that high up in the company. I mean. . . I'm a _girl_, for crying out loud."

"Anything's possible." he murmured. "And I'd think you'd have a good a chance as any man. You. . . you're tough as nails."

I blushed. "Thanks."

"You arm wrestled with a man nearly twice your size, and still managed to beat the piss and vinegar out of him." 

"Well." I said, remembering the other day. "It wasn't enough to get rid of Chester the Molester."

He didn't seem to catch the joke. "You broke the man's nose, Carrie. Did you not know that? Once we finished with the inquiry-- well, you saw what a fierce nosebleed Chester had--" he smiled now. "-- we took him to the infirmary, and one of your hits broke the bastard's nose."

I grinned; I hadn't known this. "Wow. I just. . . wish I could have done something else."

"Didn't they teach you self defense in the shipyards?" Thomas asked.

"The boys kept telling me they would," I said wistfully. "But something was always coming up."

"I understand that one." Thomas said, then looked at me sideways. "Do you want to learn it?"

I was a little surprised by the offer. "Well, yes, but--"

"Throw something decent on and we'll go."  


"Wha-- go where?"  
  
"The gym," Thomas said. "They've got punching bags and the like we can work with. Come on, Carrie."

"Thomas," I was flabbergasted. "It's two thirty in the morning!"

"All the better." Thomas said, amused at my surprise. Normally it would have been _me_ suggesting something out of the ordinary. "If you mess up, there's no one to see you do so."

"Right, but. . ." I shook my head. "It'll be closed."

"Carrie," he said, rising off of the sofa. "Let me tell you a little something about being the master shipbuilder." he walked to the desk, and pulled open a drawer. "When you're in this position. . ." he pulled out a key ring clanking with at least two dozen keys. ". . . they give you a key to every major room on the boat."

I grinned, standing up as well. "Could I run down to E Deck and grab something more comfortable?"  


*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Fabrizio stirred as I rummaged quietly in my bag for my worn pair of denim workpants and a shirt. When I looked up, the bundle under my arm, he was looking down at me from the top bunk. Illuminated by the light of the hall and the halfway open door, his bleary eyes met mine. "Carrie?" he whispered.

"It's me." I murmured back. "Sorry. I'm just stopping in for a moment."

"Did Andrews kick you out?" Suddenly he was wide awake, and his eyes were ablaze. "That stupid-- I'll beat the--"

"No-- shh! You'll wake Jack!" Jack was on the bunk beneath Fabrizio, head thrown back on his pillow, snoring with his mouth hanging open. I looked back up at Fabrizio. "I'm fine. Really. Thomas and I are on our way to the gym. . . he's teaching me some self-defense moves."

"Oh." he relaxed a little, and smiled. "I better watch out then, eh?"

"You bet." I said, grinning, preparing to head out the door. "See you."

"Carrie?"

I turned back and had to smile at Fabrizio. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, and his chin was slightly scraggly with stubble. The lighting made him look pretty handsome. No wonder his blonde girl liked him. "Yeah?"

"Have fun, okay?" he grinned at me.

"I will." I waved best as I could. "Thank you." Thomas was waiting outside the door; he and Fabrizio waved at each other before I closed the door behind me. "Okay."

On our way back up, we had to pass Thomas' rooms again, and that's where I stepped inside to change. I pulled on the comfortable workpants, and then a light blue blouse, of which I rolled up the sleeves until I could push them above my elbow.

It was freezing on the deck by the entrance of the gym, but it was unbelievable to see the sea this late at night-- or so early in the morning. It was a vast maw of black, the sky a deep navy color above it, stars glittering here and there. Thomas opened the door of the gym and ushered me inside; he flipped the lights on from a switch on the wall. I looked around; all sorts of equipment and machinery were scattered around. And by the side, there were three full-size punching bags. A tinier speed bag was hung from the ceiling. 

"Nice." I said, grinning at him. 

Thomas grinned back. "Well." he shook out his arms; I did some stretching positions for them that I knew from the shipyards. "Let's get going, then." He stepped closer and said, "First things first. Make a fist for me-- like one you'd hit a man with."

I did so, bringing my thumb to the side. "Like that?"

"Exactly. You don't want the thumb over or under the knuckles, because the force of a hit could break it. Now." he moved toward one of the larger, 150 pound punching bags, which hung from the ceiling by thick cords. "When you hit, you don't want to lock your elbow, because you could break the elbow."

"Geez." I said, both of us grinning. "You'd think it'd be better just to run the other way."

"Well, in some cases, it is. Anyway, you always want to hit with the first two knuckles, and when you're punching, the other hand should always guard your face, like this." he demonstrated fist positions and the stance before the punching bag. "And when you hit, it should be fast and hard; pull your fist back quick as y'can. Like this." To illustrate his point, he slammed his fist into the punching bag, which rocked violently back and forth, squeaking as it bounced against the cords. 

"Holy crap." I said, impressed. "That was incredible!" 

Thomas grinned and blushed as he stopped the swinging. "Thank you." he gestured to the punching bag. "You try it."

I glared at the black surface of the punching bag before me, and set my arms. I imagined the face of the man who'd cornered me in the stairwell, and I punched it, _hard_, my arm tensing as I did so. The bag was knocked back toward the wall and swung back and forth. 

"That was good!" he said, pleased. "Excellent!" 

"Thanks." I said, a little pink in the cheeks from his praise. 

Thomas had me try it a few more times, then had me switch stances and repeat the process with my left hand. After he was satisfied by my performance, he made me face him. "Now," he said, both of our hands raised to our faces. "I want you to hit me."

I stared, my hands dropping slightly. "What?"

He was smiling slightly. "I want you to aim right for my nose and hit me as hard as you can."

"Are you insane!?" I demanded. "I could kill you! If I broke your nose, I could knock bone splinters straight into your--"

"Yes, I'm well aware." he was still smiling. "Now are you going to hit me or not?"  
  
I swallowed, not wanting to hurt him. But he had to know what he was doing. And if not. . . . well, he deserved what was coming to him. I let out a breath, then took aim. I hit as hard as I could--

And suddenly I was in a headlock. "What the hell!" I spluttered, struggling to free myself from his iron-like grip around my windpipe. My fist hadn't even touched skin.

Thomas was chuckling. "Do you know how to get out of a headlock, Carrie?"  


"No," I said, a little surprised at how easily we were speaking while being so close to one another. I mean, his arm was wrapped around my neck and forcing me to his side, for Chrissake. My knee was practically glued against the back of his leg. I could smell him again-- God, did he smell good. Somehow I felt a little wobbly. "No idea."  


"Alright, then, that's lesson number two. If you're in a headlock, you want to aim for the back of the person's knee. Hit it hard as you can with the side of your hand." 

"Like that?" I dug my hand into his leg with a gulp. 

"Exactly so. And it should throw them off balance, like this," he caught himself mid-fall. "and you should be able to grab their shoulder and force them to the floor."

I did so, and made sure he went down; Thomas laughed. As I pulled him to his feet, I said, impressed, "How the hell did you do that?"

He showed me. What he'd done was blocked my punch, grabbed my arm, pulled me forward, and locked his arm around my neck. We worked for more than an hour; he showed me more blocks and punches, including an uppercut to the jaw (and gut), a backhand that hit with the (big surprise) back of the hand, a left and right hook, and numerous jabs, as well as how to fake punches. He showed me how to keep the shoulders still when punching so as not to give anything away to the attacker; he showed me a bunch of kicks I could use, including a roundhouse to the side and head, side kicks, and a thrust kick, a very efficient move in which one pulled up their knee and leg, and then thrust their foot out toward the person. 

At four in the morning we reached his quarters again, tired but happy. Thomas offered to wake me at seven to prepare for the services; I agreed to it and we turned in for the night. I was asleep within moments of my head touching the pillow.


	5. Chapter Five

Author's Note: Sorry this one took so long to rattle out. Damn rough week. . . my bf semi-dumped me, and I just haven't been in a writing mood. So much for a fairy-tale. Anyway. . . let's see here. I actually don't have anything to say about the story, except I have some thank yous to dish out. First of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MOLLIE, who helped me figure out how to italicize things, and THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of my reviewers. All the reviews have meant so much to me, and I really appreciate that you guys are loving this so much. Oh, and I forgot-- sorry if I insult anybody with the whole thing with the Sunday services. But who really cares? Please don't tell me the world has gotten THAT politically correct. Enjoy!

FIVE

"Amen."

The chapel (really, the dining hall, just with the chairs and tables moved) reverberated with that single word as we lowered ourselves into our seats for the homily. Thomas and I were sitting together, about two-thirds of the way back. He was looking very fine, in a dark, dark blue pinstriped suit. I was wearing one of Mrs. Peckdash's outfits, a lovely sea-green gown with full-length sleeves, the ensemble trimmed with lace. 

As I listened to the homily, I thought back over the rest of the service, to when the opening hymn had been announced. Everyone, of course, sang to the neatly printed words in the service pamphlet-- but it was quite the surprise to hear Thomas singing. He wasn't terrible-- in fact, he was pretty good. It was nice to hear him singing, and somehow a comfortable thought that he and I were of the same faith-- and of faith at all.

_But then again_, I thought with a small smile. _It's hard to find someone in the shipping business that _isn't_ religious in some way_. Life with the sea called on faith in more ways than one, the first and most prominent was of course the fact that the sea was made of water-- wet water, in which death by drowning was always a threat. Also, in the shipyards, it was fairly easy to get hurt, and I remembered that at Garrison and Wheeler, there had always been a small prayer service every morning before work started for those that wanted to attend. Finally, how in the world could one look at the vast expanse of ocean, witness a sunset at sea, or take a deep breath of the salt water air without believing in some form of a higher being?

Those were my thoughts as I sat there next to Thomas, fingering the fresh bandage under my sleeve on my arm, one ear on the homily, looking forward to what the day would bring.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"You look like you've been through the mill." Tommy Ryan said, grinning savagely as I dropped into a seat at his, Fabrizio, and Jack's table.

"Thank you for noticing," I said back, knowing there were somewhat dark circles under my eyes. "Uhhy." I put my head on my arms on the table.

"Long night, eh?" Fabrizio joked, digging into his scrambled eggs.

"Shut up." I threw a packet of sugar at him, but couldn't help grinning. "Yeah. It was. We were up until four a.m. looking at diagrams. And we ended up going to the gym, and he taught me a whole bunch of self-defense moves. Then we got three hours of sleep before we had to make it to the eight o'clock, and he took me for breakfast while the other first classers had their services."

"So where is loverboy now?" asked Tommy, biting into his toast.

"Giving the DeWitt Bukaters a tour of the ship." I answered, grinning at him, and then I looked toward Jack. 

Jack had been fairly quiet this morning. Currently his head was leaning on his hand, elbow on the table as he stared unseeingly at this strawberry oatmeal. He was still hurting from the fact that he'd gotten kicked out of the first-class services earlier when he'd tried to see Rose. When I mentioned the tour, however, his head perked up. "He's giving them a tour?" he asked me.

"Yeah." I said, wondering what this was all about. "He is."

Jack looked down at his oatmeal, and shifted his weight. Then he looked back up, sharp blue eyes alert. "Back later." he downed a swallow of his coffee, pulled out a cigarette, and was gone out the exit of the dining hall.

Tommy watched him go, then turned back to us, shaking his head. "Th'boy isn't logical." he said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Neither is amore." Fabrizio returned, grinning. 

"That fellow-- Andrews, is it?" Tommy smiled at me. "Y've got his heart wrapped 'round your little finger, Carrie."

"Maybe." I said, blushing. 

"Maybe!" Tommy exclaimed. "Didn't y'see the way he stared at y' last night, the whole time y'were dancin' with Fabrizio over here?"

"It was like he was looking at an angel." Fabrizio said, spreading his fingers in front of his eyes to illustrate his point.   


"I've gotta admit," Tommy said, taking a swig of his own coffee. "You did look lovely last evenin'."  
  
"Thanks." I said, and finished my coffee. "Hey, Fabrizio, who was that girl you were dancing with?"

"Her name is Helga." he said, leaning both elbows on the table, eyelids heavy as he thought of her. "She and her family are going to America to start a dairy farm like the one they had in Sweden."

"That reminds me, Fabrizio." Tommy said thoughtfully. "What was it you're plannin' on doin' in the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

"First things first," Fabrizio said dreamily. "I'm going to look at the Statue of Liberty until my eyes hurt."

"I've heard Lady Liberty's a real beauty." Tommy said, crushing the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. "Can't wait to see the lass."

"After I do that," Fabrizio said. "I'm going to become a millionaire. I'm going to open a chain of Italian restaurants all around New York, and make millions of dollars, and have a nice house and a nice wife. . . maybe even Helga!" his smile was enormous. 

We sat around talking and planning for another hour before I decided to wander on up to the boat deck to see if Thomas was done with his tour. "Hey, guys, I'm gonna take off. You two stay out of trouble."

"Don't worry," Tommy assured me, grinning. "We'll get into as much as possible."

"And that makes me feel oh-so-much better." I told him, standing up. "See you later."  
  
I was heading up the grand staircase to A Deck when suddenly I heard from behind me: "Miss Stevenson!"

I turned, and was surprised to find Mrs. DeWitt Bukater heading towards me. "Hi," I said warily, wondering what this was all about. "Tour over?"   


A large, false smile spread across her face as she hiked up her skirts to climb the stairs with me. "Just finished."

"Ah." I said; she walked alongside me. "You didn't happen to see which direction T-- Mr. Andrews ran--"

"Miss Stevenson," she interrupted, her voice tense. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior at dinner the other evening."

Surprised, I looked at her, but the depth of her comment didn't reach her eyes. "Well, thanks, but it wasn't a big deal. I'm used to it."

"It must be hard." she said with a quiet sigh. "Being in steerage. Wouldn't you say so?"

I wondered what in the hell she was getting at. "Well, sure, it can be sometimes. But I'd much rather be there than first class. No offense to you, ma'am."

"None taken." she said silkily, and I knew she was lying. I smiled inwardly. Score one for Carrie Stevenson. "Well," DeWitt Bukater continued. "I imagine it _is _rather enjoyable. No set rules, being able to say as you please. No one to scold you for spitting or cursing."

"Yeah," I said sarcastically. "We're real heathens."

"I didn't mean it in that context. As I said, I imagine it's rather enjoyable."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Forgive me, Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, but you don't look like the spitting or cursing type."

"I'm not." she assured me. "And neither is anyone else in first class."

I made a face, and stopped, turning to face her. "Look, if you have something to say, just say it. You're really getting on my nerves."

She seemed a little surprised, then calmed down. "This is exactly what I mean. You've no manners, Miss Stevenson. None at all. You could make anyone with you look just as low as yourself."

I stared at her like she was crazy. She was. "What the hell are you talking about?" 

"_Mr. Andrews_." she said scathingly. 

I'd been ready to start walking, but I froze in my tracks, and slowly turned back to her. "Excuse me?" My voice had taken on a slightly high-pitched tone.

"You and your beloved shipbuilder Mr. Andrews." she snapped, her voice nearly a whisper. "The entire escapade of him bringing you to dinner last night made him look no better than steerage rats like yourself. And you-- half the passengers saw you and him at the eight o'clock services this morning. You are giving him a bad name, Miss Stevenson."

My breathing had quickened in anger; I stared back into her blazing eyes. "That's bullshit." I whispered.

She nearly gasped at my words, but kept her dignity. "It is _not_." she insisted coldly. "He is being made to look like a fool. His friends are whispering behind his back. They don't believe it's proper for him to be associating with the likes of you. His very status with the highrollers on this ship is deteriorating. The minute we dock in New York, people like Ismay and the Captain will be reporting his miserable antics to his uncle at Harland and Wolff. His _occupation_ is at stake! And do you know why?" her cold eyes swept me up and down. "Because of his associations with _you_."

I felt like someone had hit me across the face with a sledgehammer. The logic of DeWitt Bukater's words were starting to sink in. God, she was right. I'd forgotten my place. Thomas was first class. . . and I wasn't. But he'd said he didn't care! He said he. . . but that was before we'd been hanging out together, in public. . . did he know? Did he know his reputation was at stake?

"You see?" she said quietly, voice harsh. She knew she'd won.

"Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." My voice was shaking. "Leave me alone. Do _not_ ever speak to me again. I don't want to have to stomach the sight of you once more on this trip." 

"Say what you must," she murmured. "But you and I _both_ know that I'm right." Her fine gown whispered after her as she marched out to the boat deck.

I could hardly breathe. Yes, she was right. She was beyond right. I'd been a blind damn fool. How in the world. . . how could I have let myself do that to Thomas!? How could he even stand to be around me!? Was it all a mask, then. . . the gentleness I'd seen in his eyes in the last twenty-four hours, and before that. . . was he faking it all? But why!?

I stumbled to the deck and dropped into a seat near the bridge. One thing was for sure-- I couldn't hang around with Thomas again. We couldn't see each other. I couldn't be responsible for the social downfall of the kindest man I'd ever met. 

It took me a moment to realize that my eyes were blurred with tears; I brushed them away angrily on the sleeves of my blouse. I opened my notebook, and stared down at the pages. They fluttered in the breeze that was picking up, somehow stopping at the page where I'd listed my options after the ship docked. I'd just go on with Fabrizio and Jack. My return to Garrison and Wheeler would have to wait until I was over Thomas. . . I couldn't get back into the business with a master shipbuilder still in my heart. 

  
"Miss Stevenson?"

I jumped, surprised, and looked up into the sympathetic but curious face of Mr. Murdoch. "Oh." embarrassed, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and sniffled to clear my nose. "Hi, Mr. Murdoch."

"May I?" Murdoch motioned to a seat next to me.

"Sure." I said, and did my best to smile at him. "By the way, my name's Carrie. 'Miss Stevenson' is getting a little annoying."

He smiled back. "Alright then, Carrie. You might as well cease the 'Mr. Murdoch', too. I imagine it gets a little tedious to be so formal all the time."

I nodded, glad for his understanding. "Yes. It does. Thanks. . . Will."

"Of course." he said, then his looks returned to the concerned side. "What's troubling you, Carrie?"

"Nothing." I lied, taking in a shaky breath of salty air.

"Come now," Murdoch said gently. "You can't be sitting here weeping for nothing."

"You never know," I said, able to smile now. "I just might be."

He smiled a little as well, but his eyes remained worried. "Well, if you don't want to speak about it, I won't--

"It's Thomas!" I burst out.

For a moment Murdoch's face didn't show any change, then the slightest hint of shock crept into it. "Carrie, what. . . what happened?"

"_He_ didn't do anything," I said, tears again welling up behind my eyes. 

"Then. . . what. . ."

"Do you know of the DeWitt Bukaters?" I asked him.

"The name," Murdoch said, looking forlornly at me. "Nothing else."

"Well, Ruth-- the older one-- she's. . ." I bit my lip, and met Murdoch's depressed stare. ". . . she stopped me just a few minutes ago. She gave me this stuff about. . . about how I'm completely ruining Thomas' image, and how his friends are talking about him behind his back. . . she says that by my being third class, I'm making him look just as low as me. She told me that Ismay and-- and Captain _Smith_ even-- they're going to report how he was hanging around me, and he'll get into all sorts of trouble."

For a moment, Murdoch was silent. Then he murmured, "And you believed her?"

I was thrown off guard. "Well, yes-- why shouldn't I have?"

"Because it sounds to me that this Ruth woman is a jealous prick who finds it enjoyable to insult those whom she thinks has a better understanding of society than she does."

I swallowed. "Yes, but Will, she's _right_. . ."

"Even if she was," he said kindly. "Do you think Thomas would care?"  


"Yes!" I said. "He just built the largest ship in the history of man and God and therefore has an image to keep up! And I'm just. . . I'm steerage scum. I'm throwing mud onto that perfect. . ." My voice shook. ". . . that unbelievable. . . wonderful. . . gentle. . ." I could hardly breathe; I looked up to Murdoch.

"A little dirt never hurt anyone." He said knowledgably. "And. . . _please_. You. . . you're not steerage scum. No one is, except for that foul bugger last week who. . ." he trailed off.

"Will," I said, clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. "I don't. . . Thomas might not care. But. . . _other_ people care. How's it going to look to everyone else if this keeps up?"

Murdoch was silent, eyes piercingly sad. He didn't speak.

"I've got to let him go." I said, brushing the tears away again. "I--"

"Carrie, no--"

"-- can't let him keep this up. But. . ." I trailed off. ". . . he's the most. . ." I looked up at Murdoch, whose face showed nothing but empathy and sorrow. ". . . he's the best man I've ever met in my life."  


"There's still a chance." Murdoch said softly. "If you--" Suddenly he froze, looking past me. His face went from sad to shocked in less than half a second. 

I couldn't look. I knew who was there. "He's right behind me," I said dully. "Isn't he."

"Carrie. . ." the familiar voice was quiet, gentle, and so loving.

I turned around, my cheeks burning with a blush. "How long have you been stan--" The look on Thomas' face made the words halt halfway out of my mouth.

God, it was the expression of a tortured soul staring at me. He looked so sad, and yet there was a tenderness in his features. "Long enough to hear most everything." he murmured, eyes locked with mine.

"I'd better--" started Murdoch, climbing to his feet.

"No," Thomas and I said at the same time, and that smile once again tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You stay." he instructed, and moved forward, slowly at first, then quickened his pace until he dropped onto the body of the lawn chair beside me. 

All three of us were silent. My stomach churned with butterflies. Then Thomas, who still hadn't taken his pained eyes off of mine, said, "Carrie, did Mrs. DeWitt Bukater really say all that?"

"She did." I told him, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat. "She said I had no manners and could make anyone around me look just as low. Then she got into that whole thing about how I'm making you look bad." Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Thomas, it's true--"

"Hush." He said it gently, and took both of my hands in his before looking up at Murdoch. "As Will said, Carrie, did you think I'd care?"

"And as _I_ said," I told him, my throat tight. "You've just built the world's largest--"

"My occupation," Thomas interrupted softly. "and my occupation only, has determined where I stand with the society of today, and has created some cock-and-bull image that I'm an arrogant, filthy first-class snob like the rest of them. Their opinion does not matter to me, and will not change anything in my life. Every passenger on the ship could report something foul about me, and my uncle would still let me keep my position."

I swallowed, my hands trembling in his. 

"They are insulting you, Carrie, because they've somehow held onto the idea that anyone without money is lower than they. DeWitt Bukater's words were meant to hurt you, and not me." His sincere eyes were glued to mine. 

"And I fell for it," I whispered, feeling like a complete jackass.

"You didn't know." Thomas murmured, and to my surprise laid a gentle arm across my shoulders. "And they can do or say whatever they want about me. Their actions have not and never will change what I think."

Murdoch was fighting a smile. "_Now_ I believe I'll go." He stood up slowly, eyes twinkling. 

Neither of us protested. I turned to Thomas and took in a shaky breath. "Well." 

He was stroking the back of one of my hands with his thumb. "Well." he repeated, then a mischievous gleam came into his eyes. "Come on. There's something we have to do." he pulled me to my feet.

"What is it?" I asked as he offered his elbow; I took it with both hands.

"You'll see." We walked back toward the entrance of the ship. Thomas paused for a moment. "Tell me if you see Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." he murmured.

I stared. "What in the--"

"I know what I'm doing," he assured me, smiling, his free hand coming to rest over mine on his elbow. "D'you trust me?"

I had to smile back. "Of course I--" I suddenly caught sight of his target. "DeWitt Bukater, nine o'clock!"

He looked, and began walking toward her. "Come on." he said, and we followed her at a distance as she went down the stairs, her arm through Cal Hockley's. "Mrs. DeWitt Bukater!" Thomas called, making the name sound lovely. 

DeWitt Bukater turned and saw us approaching her. Her eyes widened momentarily, and her mouth froze into a stern line, but then she again smiled that disgustingly false smile. "Mr. Andrews." she greeted coldly. "Miss Stevenson. Cal, surely you remember Miss Stevenson from dinner the other evening?"

"Oh, yes." Cal said, one eyebrow lifted as he stared at me. I smiled sweetly at him.

"Mrs. DeWitt Bukater," Thomas said kindly, smiling. "I was wondering if you could spare a moment of your time?"

"Anything for Mr. Andrews," she twittered. 

"Then perhaps you can name me some of the values of the first-class society. Carrie and I were interested-- after all, neither of us have the slightest comprehension of what they seem to be." 

Her false smile vanished. "I should think you would know very well, Mr. Andrews."

Thomas didn't falter. "We're in a bit of a hurry, if you don't mind."

DeWitt Bukater stared wide-eyed from Thomas to Cal and then to me. But she said, "Well, I should think that some of the values include honesty. . . respect. . . overall politeness--"

"Excuse me," Thomas apologized for his interruption. "What were those last two?"

DeWitt Bukater was giving him the evil eye. "Respect and overall politeness."

"Ma'am, you've got me confused." he said. "I asked you for values of the first class."

"And I gave them."

"Then there must be a mistake." Thomas said, his voice dropping from kind to cool. "Because I presume that you hold a first-class ticket, and yet respect and politeness are not even in your nature."

"I beg your pardon!" DeWitt Bukater was horrified.

"You have no respect for your peers, Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." Thomas said; I shifted my grip on his elbow, and his hand tightened over mine. "You didn't show an ounce of respect when you approached Carrie earlier."

"You expect me to believe that this--" she looked me up and down. "--this--"

"Yes?" I said calmly, waiting for her to pick out an insult. I looked at Thomas. "You're right-- no respect."

"I've tried to embrace this society for years, madam." Thomas said to Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, words laced with anger. "And it has gutpunched me instead. I prefer to involve myself in the kind of culture that does not require snobbery to fellow human beings." he smiled again. "Good day."

And we marched back down the hall.

"It's like a dream," I said, both of us grinning. 

"Real enough to me," Thomas said, and I could feel him trembling. "I haven't stood up to someone like that in. . . God knows, in years."

"Thank you," I said, looking up at him, absolutely sincere. "I really appreciated that."

"You're welcome," he said, repositioning his hand over mine, eyes gentle. "I do what I can."

I didn't know where we were heading, but at this point, I didn't care. "How did the tour go?"

"Oh." the smile faded. "Alright, but we were going through the bridge and one of the lads came in saying that we were getting an iceberg warning."

"Wonderful." I said sarcastically.

"Yes, but that's not it." he bit his lip. Christ on a pony, was it attractive. "Soon as the kid left, Captain Smith told us not to be worried-- he's ordered the rest of the boilers lit!"

"But that means we're speeding up." I said, dumbstruck.

"Exactly." Thomas said with a disgusted sigh. "I mean, I'm sure we'll be fine. . . it's just that you don't order more speed when there's a warning like this. God forbid, if something _does _happen, it gives you less reaction time."

"I bet it's Ismay again," I said, only half joking.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Thomas said, then let out a long breath. "You want lunch? I'm starving."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I leaned back against the pillows in my guestroom and closed my eyes, smiling. While tired, I still had the energy to think back to the events of this afternoon.

We'd gotten lunch in the Parisian cafe, and then when we were finished we sat around in the cafe and drank coffee while we talked. By the time we left, it was a little after two o'clock, at which point we headed back for the gym to work on more of those self-defense moves.

Thomas had not only gone over all the moves that he'd taught me last night (or this morning), but he showed me several combinations of moves for actual fighting. He showed me how to get the most power out of a punch, how to keep your balance when doing the combinations, how to distance yourself from a target. 

Then we'd worked on actual sparring.

We'd somewhat circled each other, and then the attacks began. Thomas went into an entire series of punches at me, and I blocked every one of them-- some more narrowly than others. By the time he drew back from his punching fest, we'd somehow gathered a small crowd of fellow gym people. We hardly noticed. Our eyes were locked as we tried to figure out what the other's move would be.

His next attack consisted almost entirely of kicks; I managed to block those as well. "That was good," he told me when he drew back. "But you can't win any match being on the offensive the whole time."

At which point _I_ started a whole bunch of punches. He blocked them all, and then I switched tactics, throwing a roundhouse. He blocked it, and while doing that, I was able to punch for his right side.

"There you go!" he said, drawing back. "Fantastic!"

Then suddenly, his right fist was flying at my face. I moved quickly, grabbing his hand, pulling forward and down so that he followed, and then my arm was around his neck and he was in a headlock. For a split second I took in how absolutely close together we were standing, and then I remembered too late that he'd try to get out of the headlock by hitting the back of my leg and pulling my shoulder. 

"Shit!" I cried as I went down, but I was still half laughing. The crowd cheered and applauded as Thomas stood up and beamed down at me, offering his hand to pull me to my feet.

I took it, the noise of the crowd somehow drowned out in the midst of his twinkling, friendly eyes. "Thanks." I said, trying to get my panting breaths under control.

"You're welcome." he said, his shoulders also rising and falling rapidly. "I think that's enough for today. You did well."

"So did you," I said, pleased at his compliment.

From there, we'd gathered our things and headed back to his quarters, where we'd split up for a nap to get caught up on the sleep we'd missed last night. Now I folded my hands behind my head, grinning at the afternoon we'd shared. Weird-- just hours earlier I'd been so upset over the fact that I'd probably never be able to speak to Thomas again. Funny how things don't always turn out the way you plan.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

  


At four-thirty I poked my head out of my room to see the foyer empty of Thomas. I stepped out, and he wasn't on the promenade deck, either. Figuring he was still napping, I stepped back into my room and changed into my denim work pants and a white Oxford blouse. I rolled up the sleeves of the blouse until they were at my elbows, the bandage at my right elbow barely visible. Then I stepped out of the room again. Still no Thomas.

For a moment I looked around, trying to figure out what to do. That's when I caught sight of his desk in the corner, laden with papers and blueprints, the sunshine from the windows throwing white beams of light across it. I couldn't help myself; I stepped over to the desk, and stared down at what was on it. 

A large, deep blue blueprint was spotted by small pages of all kinds of handwritten notes. Others were typed, and other papers were checklists. Some were stacked, and others were scattered. Near the top of the desk was a small inkwell, and a heavy writing pen. I looked down at the notes.

I recognized Thomas' handwriting from the little notebook he carried around with him-- which was sitting near the inkwell. And then another piece of paper caught my eye. This one was slightly yellowed, and it was under a stack, so that only a corner of it showed. But that corner held a small patch of black, which had unmistakably come from a charcoal pencil, exactly like the ones that Jack carried around to do his work.

I considered leaving it there, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled the paper from under the mess, careful not to displace anything. I nearly dropped it when I realized what it was. The paper itself seemed to be about two by two feet in length, and was a collection of miniature drawings of what was undoubtedly the _Titanic_. 

One of the four drawings on the paper depicted the grand steamer from the side, set in the water. Another one showed the view facing the stern, and the third one was shown facing the bow. Finally, the last drawing was a slightly overhead view, from the back of the ship, showing _Titanic_ heading into a sunset. There was a date at the bottom: October, 1909. The drawings were incredibly clean and real; there was shadowing and shine where appropriate, the hull looked like it was made of iron as it was. I could practically smell the sweet and bitter smoke that was shown wafting from the smokestacks. The workmanship of it was incredible, and it had to be Thomas'. 

_Is this what they teach you in the drawing room_? I wondered, lowering myself into the chair at the desk to better study the portraits of the ship. I couldn't take my eyes off of the pictures. In them, I could see every little line of rigging, every railing on the ship. Even the churning water kicked up by the very movement of _Titanic_ was shown. 

"You've discovered my drawings, eh?"

I jumped a mile and stood up, my cheeks flooding with color as I faced Thomas, who'd just emerged from his rooms. He wore plain gray pants, his vest hanging open, sleeves rolled up. My God, was he handsome. "I'm sorry," I stammered. "I was up, and I just-- just saw the notes out--"

His expression turned slightly puzzled, but kind. "I don't mind you looking, Carrie. What makes you think I would?"

"I. . . I just thought. . . I mean, most people don't like other people hunting through their. . ."

"I don't have anything to hide." he assured me gently. There was a slight pause. "Find anything interesting?"  
  
"Yes," I said, tearing my gaze from his and looking down at the fine drawings. "Did you draw those?"  


"I did indeed." he said, moving a little closer, looking at it. "A few months before construction began on the _Titanic_."

"They're really good," I said, meaning it, looking at him. "I've never seen such fine work."

"I hardly believe that," he told me, blushing. "But thank you."

"I'm serious!" I said. "It's beautiful."

He was still blushing. "Want to look over another blueprint? I dug up one a little earlier that's got the floor plan of each level on the boat, bow to stern."

I grinned. "Sounds wonderful. Count me in."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Our shoulders were pressed together as we leaned over the aforementioned diagram. We'd dragged two tables together on the promenade deck so that we could clearly see the full-sized blue and white blueprint. The orange-ish pink light of sunset was glowing in through the window when the notes of the bugle call for supper wafted through the open window.

"Thomas," I said, feeling horrible all of the sudden. "You're late for dinner. I didn't even realize the time-- you've got to get going--"

"I'm not going to dinner." he told me, sincere eyes meeting mine.

"You're--" I was a little confused. "-- not going?"

He shook his head. "Couldn't stand to face the DeWitt Bukaters again, or Ismay. And this _is_ the grandest ship in the world we're on. I wouldn't have made you a ship that didn't offer dinner services right to one's room."

I grinned. "Good point."

"Would you join me?" he asked, quiet and sincere.

"I'd love nothing more." I said, meeting his now-smiling brown eyes.

We supped together on the promenade deck, going over that diagram. We talked as we ate, and Thomas showed me every nook and cranny on the vessel. I learned my way around the crew passages, through the stateroom corridors, though the boiler and engine rooms, where the main kitchens were. The whole time, Thomas spoke gently, features kind as he taught me about the ship he loved so much, had poured so much work into. By the time it was too dark to see, I could have walked round the ship with my eyes closed, and still would have gotten to my destination.

"After the ship docks," Thomas said as we took our plates back inside to the dinner cart. "I'll be staying in New York a few days, and then it's back to Belfast, and the drawing room. I've got another ship in the works that I'd like to get to work on."

"Sounds wonderful," I said, stacking my dish on the cart and going back to the deck to retrieve our wine glasses and dessert plates. When I entered again, he was pulling open a larger drawer in his desk, the soft lamplight again creating a cozy glow against the wood paneling. It was much warmer in here as compared to the chilly deck. I set the glasses and plates on the cart, and then walked over to Thomas, curious as to the new blueprint he was pulling out. "Whatcha got there?"

"This is her," he said, setting the blueprint down on the desk. "She's not as big as _Titanic_, but she's a passenger ship, and she'll be just as grand."

I smiled at the wistful look in his eyes as he looked over the blueprint. "Can't wait to see her."

"Tell you what." he said, looking over at me, eyes soft. "When she finally gets afloat, we'll go on her maiden voyage together."

My smile broadened at the words. "Seriously?"

"Of course." he said, smiling back. I wanted to hug him, he looked so sincere and gentle. "We'll go, then when we get to New York, we'll romp around and wreak havoc and get into all sorts of trouble."

I laughed. "You wreaking havoc-- I'll have to see it to believe it."

"I'm quite capable." he assured me, eyes twinkling. 

"Got a name for her yet?" I asked, staring back at the diagram.

"Not yet." he said. "Usually one comes to me in the middle of a project. But, look--"

In five minutes we were both sitting at his desk, poring over the unusual aspects of the ship, and the finer points. This one had bulkheads that went up to A Deck and plenty of lifeboats, plus elegant but affordable suites for all classes. 

I pulled another sheet of paper from the stack; on this one was a drawing that seemed to match the size of Thomas' new ship. "Wow." I said, staring over it. This one was larger than the others, and more detailed. "This is. . . this is beautiful."

"Thank you." he blushed, but put his left hand on the back of my chair as he'd done the night before. "This is the new ship. See this space here with no windows? I'm hoping I can get a motion-picture theatre installed. Uncle says they'll be all the rage in three or four years."

"I've definitely got to see that," I said, turning to look at him, grinning. I noticed just then how close we were sitting; he was hardly more than two feet away from me. He seemed to notice it, too, because he broke our stare and looked back down again. I did, too, my throat feeling dry for some reason.

"Well," he said, voice a little quiet. "As I said, we'll go together when she first sets sail."

"How will you find me?" I asked. "I could be anywhere."

"My first stop would be Garrison and Wheeler, and if not. . . you'd be surprised at how easy it is to find someone, Carrie. Don't worry." his brown eyes were so gentle, so loving. And Jesus in the manger, did he look handsome. "She won't sail without you."

"Thanks, Thomas." I said, doing my best to meet his stare. "Means a lot to me." 

We stared at each other just a little too long. I quickly turned back to the paper, heart pounding. Damn it, I could smell him again. It should be illegal to smell that good. "So-- so you said _Titanic _can have only four bulkheads breached before she'd sink, what about this one?"

"Same." he said, and swallowed. "Carrie. . ."

I looked back up at him, and saw that he hadn't taken his eyes off of me the whole time I'd been turned away. In fact, he seemed to be even closer than he had been. "Yeah," I said. My voice shook as much as my hands did. 

He repositioned his hand on the back of my chair, our eyes locked. He leaned forward, slightly. Oh, my God! He was going to-- he was--

I felt my eyes widen as his lips touched mine, hesitantly at first, and then stronger. I was too shocked to do anything but let it happen, my eyebrows arched in surprise. He pulled back after a moment, struggling to control his breathing. He was beet red. 

For a moment we did nothing but stare at each other.

Then I found my voice, and it was husky as hell. "Do that again," I managed. "So I know I wasn't dreaming it."

Our eyes fell closed and we leaned in so fast that our lips didn't just touch, they _hit_. This time, I kissed him back, heart pounding, blood and adrenaline rushing through my system. It was the most passionate kiss of my entire life. One of his hands cupped my cheek and brought me even closer to him and deepened the kiss; I shifted to the edge of my seat to diminish the distance between us even more. I reached up and my hand was tracing through his hair before I could stop it. Thomas slid his other hand around my waist, pulling me closer so that we could no longer sit; we stood right up and I was taken with him. My other arm went around him and we held each other tightly together, still playing tonsil hockey.

At last we had to come up for air. "Christ," I breathed, both of us nearly panting, but smiling broadly, half in embarrassment at our straightforwardness. Suddenly I remembered something. "Thomas," I said, one of my hands still buried in his hair as we held each other. "Remember last night, when you asked me to give you one good reason for something, and then Ismay came in? What were you going to say?"

I have never seen such a loving expression on anyone's face. Gently, he murmured, "I was going to ask you to give me one good reason why I shouldn't kiss you right then."

I stared at him in wonder. "You-- I--" I gave in. "Well, hell, I can't think of one right now."

We pulled each other close and sank into each other's embrace, lip locked again. Thomas switched tactics and my stomach gave a jolt as he began French kissing me. I cannot and will not even begin to describe the surge of adrenaline that rushed through my veins then. I was half in shock-- my _God_ was he a good kisser! And the other half of me wondered where in the hell he learned how to do this. The back of my knees felt weak, for Pete's sake.

I couldn't stop the tiniest croak from escaping my throat as he pulled me even deeper into his arms. I was lost in the feel of his body with mine, the feel of being so close and intimate, lost in the incredible scent of him. It was unbelievable to kiss this man, this extraordinary man whom I'd met only a few days ago.

When we finally pulled back again, I was buzzing with trembles as we stared in awe at each other. His warm right hand held the left side of my face. "You're trembling like a leaf," he murmured, gentle eyes pouring into mine.

"I haven't done that in a long time," I whispered back. And never with someone that I was so much in love with. 

"'Tis been awhile for me, as well." he admitted. 

I couldn't help but to reach up and trace the line of his cheek with my fingers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He bent his head slightly again; kissed me passionately. I surrendered under his powerful lips, giddy with bliss. "Love you, Carrie." his voice was choked through the kiss.

I couldn't help it. Tears rolled down my cheeks. "Love you too, Thomas." I managed. I felt his hand catch the tears, and his arm tightened around me. A thought came to me then: All my life, I'd never had a place to go to feel welcome, never had a place where those I loved lived, but I knew it now. . . it was here, in Thomas' arms. . . I was home.


	6. Chapter Six

Author's Note: You know, it occurred to me that I have not once included a *DISCLAIMER* thus far in this story. ALL OF JAMES CAMERON'S CHARACTERS BELONG TO HIM, JUST AS SOME OF THE ACTUAL PLAYERS IN THE TRAGEDY BELONG TO HISTORY. Carrie Stevenson, Garrison and Wheeler, and (unfortunately) the sick freak are of my invention and imagination, and I would really appreciate people not ripping them off. I apologize for any inconvenience this might present, and your cooperation is appreciated. Thanks. OKAY, anyway. . . Chapter Six is ready for the reading and reviewing. Don't worry, there's more to come after this one. You'll have plenty of warning before the story ends. I still have several chapters, plus an epilogue to go. By the way, dunno when I'm gonna be able to post the next chapter, because of this LoveSan virus worm thing that's supposed to attack computers on Saturday. I'll get it up as quick as I can, however. In the meantime, you COULD send me a bunch of reviews :) Hey, I'm glad for the ones I've already gotten. You guys are honestly the best readers a writer could ask for. I'm glad you're really enjoying the story! I'm doing my best. For now, I'm off to get some lunch. I'm starving here. Thanks!!!!!! Enjoy!!!!! 

SIX

Thomas and I were leaning back against the comfortable sofa, settled in each others arms. Nothing had happened between us other than an intense make-out session, and now we were just now recovering. Since then we'd started talking again, and of all things, the topic was boat engines. By now though, we'd moved on, and now we were talking about automobiles. 

"Most people would disagree," I told Thomas, watching his thumb trace slowly back and forth over my knuckles. "But I really like Henry Ford's products. They're pretty good."

"We've got some of them in Ireland." he said. "You're right, they run well. Butche can't beat a Renault."

I grinned. "Now _that_ is a classy car. I'd love to get my hands on one of their engines."

Thomas returned the smile. "Know much about them?"

"Sure I do." I said. "Someday I'd love to take one apart and then put it back together again. Get my hands black with engine guts."

"Does sound lovely." he murmured. "I bet we could do that in New York."  


"You're not serious!"

"Sure I am," he said, smiling down at me. "Go to one of the junkyards. Well find a car and then tear it apart, piece by piece. Then we'll fix the thing." He bent his head to kiss me again; I returned it. We pulled back and lapsed into silence, but a comfortable one.

I remembered suddenly that in two days, we'd be docking, and soon after we docked would be the trial with the sick guy who'd attacked me the other day in the hall. "Thomas," I said quietly. "Have you heard much about the trial that will be taking place?"

"A little," he said. "I know that Murdoch and I are both testifying as witnesses."

Somehow, that made a wave of relief flood through me. With them on my side, everything would work out. "And how big will the trial be? It's not going to be one of those huge public things where. . ."

"Do y'think we'd put you through that?" Thomas shifted so that he could look down into my eyes. "No, Carrie, it's to be a small trial. No audience or anything."

"Good." I said, even more relieved. Somehow, sharing every detail of what had happened in the stairwell in front of an entire courtroom of people really didn't seem like a lot of fun. "Thanks." I let out a long breath; he kissed my forehead and then we settled back into each other's arms, silent again.

"Nearly midnight." he murmured after awhile.

I felt ready to doze off; I was tired from the lack of sleep from the previous night, as well as the gym work today-- and not to mention all the adrenaline aftereffects from all that smooching. "Yep." I said, my head on his shoulder as I glanced at the clock on the wall. The spidery hands were telling us that it was 11:37. Thomas' thumb continued its steady trek over my knuckles. "What are you doing tomorrow?" I asked him.

"Nothing special." he said, leaning his cheek against my head. "I could take you down to the engine room."

A smile broadened on my face. "I'd love that."

"Then how about this-- we sleep late, get a late breakfast, and then go?"

"Excellent." I said, watching the second hand slowly tick around the clock. 11:39. "I'd like to see the engines. They must be massive."

"They are," he assured me, and lifted his head to kiss me again. 

I melted into the feel of his lips against mine, pulling him close once again. This had to be heaven. Just a few days ago I was sleeping cold and damp under a bridge, and now here I was in a warm and dry stateroom, in the arms of the man I loved. Wherever God was, He must have been smiling. We pulled away at last, and then Thomas slowly disentangled himself from my arms and stood up. 

He was halfway to the desk when it happened.

Both of us felt it in the same instant-- a very distant vibration in the floor, but then the vibration expanded into a downright shudder that seemed to shake the entire ship. Thomas had stopped in his tracks, and turned to look at me, eyes narrowed. 

"What the hell--" I started, and was immediately cut off as a noise sounded toward the port side of the ship. It was a terrible, ear-splitting noise, like metal cutting metal, an intensely piercing shriek. The shudder continued. 

Something caught my eye; I looked up at the ceiling to see the magnificent chandelier trembling, the tiny crystals tinkling slightly. In that instant the terrible metal screeching stopped. My eyes shot over to the clock; it was 11:40. The whole ship seemed about to come apart beneath us as the shaking continued. The vibration gradually lessened, then stopped completely.

For a moment neither of us spoke, but I could feel my heart pounding. Whatever had happened, it had to be serious. You don't get a shudder of that magnitude and have a tiny problem. From the way Thomas' expression was slightly pained, I could tell that he knew that as well.

I watched his shoulders rise and fall as he struggled to make sense of the situation, and then suddenly his sharp eyes flew over to lock on mine. "Listen." he said quietly. 

I strained my ears for noise, and heard nothing. "I don't hear anything." I said, on my feet now.

"Exactly." he said, voice hushed. "Listen again."

I realized what he was getting at, and my heart seemed to leap into my throat. "The engines." I whispered. The lack of noise came from the fact that the engines were no longer running.

"They're not on." he said, speaking normally now, but his voice had taken on a slightly rushed tone. 

"What do you think it was?" I managed.

I his eyes held a kind of hollow dread. "Don't know." he spoke in nearly a whisper. "But a shudder that shakes the entire ship, plus the engines being shut off. . ." he shook his head. "Did it sound to you like the noise came from the port side?"

"Yeah." I said, swallowing hard. 

"Wonder if we can see anything. . ."

He began to step forward toward the promenade deck, but was interrupted as someone knocked sharply on the door of his quarters. 

Never in all my life will I forget the expression I saw in Thomas' face right then as his eyes locked with mine and we froze. It was as though the knock on the door had somehow secured his fate, as though it was a jailer announcing to the prisoner that it was time to make his way to the scaffold. The look was neither frightened or belligerent, but rather accepting and defeated.

The knock came again; in three quick strides Thomas was at the door, I right behind him. He pulled it open quickly, and Will Murdoch lifted his eyes to meet ours. His face was shining with sweat, but extraordinarily calm. But I saw that the calm was only a mask, because it lifted the second he saw Thomas. "Mr. Andrews." his voice shook a little, eyes wide. "They want you on the bridge."

I could feel the bottom of my stomach dropping out. They wouldn't call him for a little problem. And what was up with Murdoch calling Thomas "Mr. Andrews"?

"Do you know what happened, Will?" Thomas' voice was quiet. 

"I'd best not say here, sir." Murdoch said, eyes beady as he took in breath after trembly breath. He didn't look back to me. "Just get there quick as you can. They've called John Hutchinson as well."

Thomas nodded, slowly, just a little. "Thank you." he murmured. "I'll be there."

Murdoch nodded as well, sharp little jerks of his head. "Very good." and the mask lowered again. His face became calm and he turned to head quickly down the hallway. 

For a moment Thomas just hung onto the door handle. I wished I could see his eyes, but his back was to me. Finally he turned, looking beaten. He murmured, "It's serious. They wouldn't have sent for me if it wasn't."

I tried desperately to think of something to say, and only came up with a lame, "Who's John Hutchinson?"  
  
"Carpenter." he said, eyes wandering about the room. "Listen-- Carrie, will you help me roll up some of these blueprints?"

"Of course." I hurried to the one spread on the coffee table, the one of the lengthwise cross section, and began rolling the end up. Halfway finished, I watched him as he silently rolled up another diagram. I swallowed. "Thomas. . . I can't just sit around here while you go figure all this out. . . I--"

"I'd be hurt if you chose to stay," he murmured, brown eyes nearly pleading as he looked up at me. "Will you come with me?"

I nodded a little, relieved. "Yes. You bet I will."

We finished with the two diagrams, and Thomas quickly chose two more from the pile of them. He disappeared into his room for a moment and emerged buttoning his vest, straightening his tie, his long gray coat over his arm. "Have a jacket?" he asked me. "It's cold out on deck."

"Yeah." I said, and quickly stepped into my room to grab mine. It was a loosely sewn corduroy jacket, dark brown. I rolled down my sleeves and then threw the brown fabric on, hurrying out the door. Back in the foyer, Thomas was pushing a folded sheet of paper into his pocket as bent over his desk, writing something with a quick hand. He also inserted this into his pocket, and then turned to me. 

Thomas struggled to smile, moving closer with his armful of blueprints. We exchanged a quick but deep kiss, his free hand resting on the side of my face. "Let's go," he murmured when we pulled back, and we headed quickly out of his room toward the bridge.

The hallway was brightly lit, and it was an odd feeling to walk down it so late at night. Further up the hall, I spotted the countess talking with a steward. Most of Saturday night at dinner, she'd been smiling, but now her face was oddly wrinkled with concern. ". . . I felt a shudder." she was telling the steward.

"I shouldn't worry, ma'am." the steward was saying. "We've likely thrown a propeller blade." Thomas and I brushed past them. "That's the shudder you felt. May I bring you anything?"

"Propeller blade, my ass." Thomas mumbled. I would have smiled if I hadn't known the situation was so serious. 

Up the bright and cheery steps of the grand staircase and out through the revolving glass doors to the deck we went. Cold air seemed hit us like a smack in the face; it was quite a contrast from the warmth of the ship. The sky matched the ebony colored water, and the stars stood out against it, the Milky Way spreading cheerfully across the north. Near the horizon line, the sky was slightly more blue. The night seemed too perfect for disaster. 

Finally Thomas and I reached the steps leading up to the bridge, and we both took them two at a time, our breath clouding in the cold air. Upon reaching the bridge, I was almost stunned at how little activity was going on. I'd expected to see crewmembers rushing left and right, but most of the officers were gathered right at the bridge, as though waiting for orders. 

I noticed Captain Smith standing off to the side, deep in discussion with a man I didn't recognize, and another man that I knew from pictures-- Chief Officer Henry Wilde, and Murdoch was there as well. Wilde was the first one to notice Thomas and I hurrying toward them, and he turned to Smith. "Captain," he said, gesturing toward us.

"Mr. Andrews," Smith greeted, voice hard. "And Miss Stevenson. Did Mr. Murdoch tell--"

"No." Thomas and Murdoch said at the same time, and glanced at each other. Thomas, pained expression on his face, looked toward the captain, his hand sliding unnoticed into mine.

Captain Smith spoke heavily. "Iceberg, Mr. Andrews."

I felt a shiver go through Thomas then. His lips parted, and he breathed, "Did we hit?"

"We tried to turn, but she was too close-- scraped us along the port side."

I could practically feel Thomas struggling to stay calm. "I assume you engaged the reverse engine--"

"That's right." Wilde said grimly.

"-- and did you then try to port around it?" Thomas finished. 

"I did." Murdoch said, the calm mask nowhere in sight. He looked as though he were just trying to keep breathing, as though his whole world had just come crashing down around him. It had.

Thomas' voice was urgent now. "Did you close the watertight--"

"Right after she hit." Murdoch said, and I could see him shaking.

"She's taking on water," Smith murmured, eyes sharp and serious. "Andrews, I need you and Mr. Hutchinson to sound the ship."

"Yes, sir." said the man I didn't know. His reddish, short sideburns poked out from under his cap; from the way he answered I assumed that he was the carpenter. 

"Right away, sir." Thomas glanced at Hutchinson, and then at me. "Come on, let's go." 

"Andrews--" Smith looked uneasily at me and back to Thomas. "Miss Stevenson would probably be better off staying here."

I opened my mouth to reply, but Thomas was ahead of me. He shook his head ever so slightly at the captain, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but strong. "Carrie Stevenson knows this ship as well as I do." His eyes met mine for the briefest instant before turning back to Smith. "She goes, captain."

Smith nodded, slowly. "Alright." he murmured finally. "Hurry."

I looked up at Thomas, feeling grateful toward him. The tiniest smile surfaced on his face to show that he understood, and then vanished as quickly as it had come. "Let's go."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"Carrie Stevenson." I introduced myself to the carpenter as the three of us flew down a back stairwell.

"John Hutchinson," he said in return, and we shook hands best as we could. "Nice to meet you. Sorry the circumstances are so dreary."

I had to smile. "Nice to meet you, too." I glanced at Thomas. "Where exactly are we going, anyway?"

"To check all the main holds." he said; we abandoned the stairwell and moved quickly down a crew passage. "Plus the boiler room, and the forepeak-- everything between the bulkheads."

_Five of them_. I thought to myself as we vaulted down another stairwell. _Five compartments have to be flooded for the ship to sink. _

We hurried down another hallway, this one much wider, before we reached a set of wide stairs, the sign above them reading, "PRIMARY CARGO HOLD".

"Jesus Christ!" Hutchinson breathed as we froze halfway down the stairs. The hold was flooded up to the ceiling, blue-tinged water lapping quietly just two steps below Thomas. The lights were still on under the water, and created an eerie glow. Farther into the hold, I noticed the shiny red and brass sheet metal of a Renault car, completely underwater. The water in the stairwell created shimmering strands of light on the wall, and you could smell the frigidity of it.

Water spilled slowly over the next step up, the one Thomas stood on. He quickly drew his foot back, shoe dripping. "Come on." he pulled himself up the railing. "Let's keep going."

We followed close behind as we went down the hallway, turned another corner. "John," Thomas said quickly, "You go check the secondary hold, and the third. I'll take a look at the forepeak, and the area around it. Carrie, will you run to the boiler rooms?"

"Sure thing." I said, and we split up, no time to waste. I hurried down the corridor, searching for another flight of stairs I knew was just around the corner. I flew around it and rushed down the stairs, a large, block-lettered "BOILER ROOM 5" over them. I couldn't stop myself in time from going off of the last step; water flew everywhere as I hit and then sloshed back around my ankles. "Shit!" I snapped as the icy water bit through my shoes and socks. _Damn_ was it cold!

For a moment I just stood there and looked around, wondering where it was all coming from, then heard the hissing on the other side of the room. I sloshed through the water around a furnace, and then saw a jagged gash in the iron on the wall, near the ceiling far above me. Water was forcing its way inside, spraying mightily across the room. The sight seemed to install an intense terror in me; I turned around and headed quickly back for the stairs. 

I was beginning to run past the stairs, toward boiler room six, when suddenly I stopped dead, staring in disbelief down the hallway. There was water creeping up the floor toward me. Shocked, I looked past it toward the stairwell to the sixth boiler room. It was completely flooded, the water from there oozing up the hall. "Christ almighty." I whispered as it touched my already-wet shoes, and I ran.

"Shit!" I found myself saying it for the second time in five minutes as Thomas and I nearly crashed into each other around a corner. "Sorry--"

"What happened?" his face was pale, hands reaching for mine, eyes frightened as he looked down at my pants, the bottoms of which were dark with water.

"Boiler room five has about six inches of water in it, and boiler room six is completely flooded."

"You're certain?"

"I saw it with my own eyes. What about--"

"Thomas," Hutchinson had caught up with us as we headed for the stairs upward. "Secondary hold is completely underwater. So is the third hold."

Thomas stared at him. "For sure?"

"Yes, there was mail floating everywhere. . . completely submerged."

Thomas looked at the ground, his lips slightly parted as he digested the information. He looked as though he were about to climb the gallows. "So's the forepeak." he murmured. The sum took a half a second to do in my head. I prayed that somehow I'd heard Thomas wrong, that it took more than five compartments to be flooded for the ship to be doomed. Thomas's hands were trembling, and his eyes rested on mine for a long beat as we both told each other without words that we knew what had to happen. "Let's go." he said finally. "Water's already twelve feet above the keel. By my calculations it won't take long for it to be even deeper." 

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

We got back to the boat deck just as J. Bruce Ismay did. His attire was almost silly for such a serious situation; he was wearing a heavy brown fur-lined bathrobe, silk pajamas, and fluffy red slippers. "When will they be back?" he was asking the second officer, Mr. Lightoller. 

Captain Smith was with us in a flash. "A report, Mr. Andrews?"

Thomas didn't reply; he swept past the captain and grabbed his stack of blueprints. Without hesitation he continued into the chartroom. The captain and Murdoch were close behind the three of us.

Halfway to the broad chartroom table, Thomas was already pulling the cord loose around one of the blueprints. Murdoch was ahead, and he swept aside a half dozen other rolled-up diagrams just as Thomas dropped his own blueprint down. "Most unfortunate," Ismay was saying. Stupid bloke didn't seem to understand what was going on, and for some reason I wanted to straight punch his nose. Thomas' hands shook as he quickly unrolled his blueprint. 

Captain Smith stood by Thomas' right side, and I on his left. Murdoch was slightly behind us, Hutchinson on my other side. The officers were gathered on the bridge just outside the door, and Ismay hung over the end of the table. Thomas reached for a paperweight to straighten the far end of the diagram-- it was a heavy piece shaped just like the ship it was securing to the table. 

When Thomas spoke, his voice was rushed and quick, the slightest note of fear in it. "Water," he said, eyes traveling quickly over the diagram. "fourteen feet above the keel, in ten minutes." he gestured with his hand, then moved it back, tracing over the line of the first bulkhead. "And in the forepeak. And all three holds-- and in boiler room six."

Hutchinson, eyes wide, said quickly to the captain, "That's right, sir."

Ismay spoke up then angrily. "When can we get underway, _dammit_?!"

"That's five compartments!" Thomas burst out at his co-designer, and then turned to the captain. "She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five." there was a split second's pause. "_Not five_."

My hands shook as much as Thomas' did. The situation was becoming painfully cold and real now.

Thomas looked back down at the diagram, his voice losing its edge. "As she goes down by the head, the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads. . . at E Deck. . ." his hand traveled over the tops of the bulkheads. ". . . from one to the next-- back, and back. There's no stopping it."

Captain Smith stared. "The pumps." he gestured to the diagram. "We opened the--"

"The pumps buy you time," Thomas said, voice slightly strangled. "But minutes, only. From this moment, no matter what we do--" he cast a glance from the diagram, then to me (my heart twisted at his heartbroken expression), then to the captain. "--_Titanic_ will founder." He sounded defeated.

The silence was deafening as the full weight of what he said hit everyone in the room. It was true, then. The unsinkable ship would sink. The ship of dreams would become the ship of nightmares-- all this on her _maiden voyage_. 

And then Ismay spoke again, voice full of stunned disbelief. "But this ship can't sink!"

Thomas rounded on him. "She's made of iron, sir-- I assure you, she can!" the anger and strength seemed to drain out of him then. "And she will. . .'Tis mathematical certainty."

There was another silence. 

Smith spoke up quietly. "How much time?"

Thomas looked slowly back down at the diagram, then up at the captain. I could almost see the educated cogs turning in his mind as he did the figures in his head. "An hour." he murmured, eyes glassy. "Two, at most."

Smith blinked slowly as Henry Wilde stepped into the room. "And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?"

Murdoch looked ready to cry; he swallowed hard, his voice nearly breaking. "Two thousand, two hundred souls on board, sir."

Smith turned slowly around and spoke heavily. "Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Ismay stared stonily back, and I realized-- it _was_ Ismay who'd suggested going so fast! A boiling rage surfaced within me; stars flashed in front of my eyes. I struggled to breathe in, breathe out, don't hit the guy. 

Captain Smith didn't break the stare until Ismay finally dropped his eyes. "Mr. Murdoch, have the crew begin to prepare the lifeboats for lowering, and I want the order that all passengers proceed to the boat deck."

"Yes, sir." Murdoch was gone in a flash. 

Smith turned to Ismay. "Mr. Ismay, I want you to assist the rest of the officers in loading the lifeboats." he moved slowly toward the door. "The rest of you, walk among the crewmembers and help them ready the boats." They scattered. Smith turned to Thomas. "What else can we do?" he asked dully.

Thomas didn't look up; his head was bowed as he looked down at the ship on paper. "Send out a CQD." he said finally, voice rough and quiet. "Possibly that new SOS signal as well. Get any ship in the area to come quick as they can to help take up passengers." 

I was amazed. Thomas, at what was the lowest point of his life, still knew what to do. He was still a man of the sea, and knew exactly what he was talking about. So much that the captain was taking orders from him.

"Very well." Smith said heavily. "Mr. Andrews, you do what you need to," And he was gone, leaving Thomas and I alone in the chartroom.

There was a long, loud silence. Thomas was facing the chart, his clenched hands on the edge of the tables, knuckles white, head bowed. I wanted to speak, to say something-- anything that would ease the pain. But I knew to just keep silent and let him talk when he was ready. My eyes fell back in his hands, which were trembling.

He took in a deep breath finally, and his voice was hardly above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Carrie." despite the lack of decibels, it was still cracking.

"Christ Jesus, Thomas." I said back, stepping closer, intensely concerned. "What do you possibly have to be sorry for?"

"That the ship couldn't've been any stronger. That I didn't put more time into her."

"Don't talk like that!" I said, my voice shaking. "Thomas, you didn't know this was going to happen. Nobody did. It can't be predicted." 

For a moment he continued to stand there, looking over his diagram, and then he slowly rolled it up with reverent fingers and pushed it to the side. He took in another deep, steadying breath and turned to me. His eyes had been bright with held-back tears, but the tears were fading back into his eyes. "Alright. Let's go."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

_Loud enough_? I mused to myself as Thomas and I made our way down to the boat deck. Steam was issuing from the four massive funnels, creating a horrendous cacophony, and crewmembers were rushing everywhere, completely disorganized.

Thomas suddenly stopped beside a crewmember fumbling with the davits. "Turn the crank to the right!" he hollered over the noise, but his voice was hardly audible. "Pull the falls taut before you unchock! Have you never heard of a boat drill!?"

"No, sir!" the crewmember came back with, and he was serious. "Not with these new davits, sir!"

Thomas set his jaw, and turned to me. "Ridiculous." he said, and brushed past, heading for the boat deck. "Come on."

He jumped the last four steps to the deck; I followed and nearly ran into him as he stopped and looked around. I looked too, and realized-- there were only a couple passengers here and there. Two hovering by the lifeboats, one leaning against the wall of the entrance hall, another two waiting on the deck chairs. I noticed Mr. Wilde just as Thomas did, and we hurried over. "Mr. Wilde!" Thomas called; I hurried to keep up. "Mr. Wilde!" the officer looked up. "Where are the passengers?"  


"They've all gone back inside," Wilde announced. "Too damn cold and noisy for them! You there!" he spun on someone else, blowing his whistle.

I watched him for a moment and then noticed Thomas pulling out his pocket watch, looking at the time. "My God." I saw his lips form the words, but I didn't hear them. He replaced the pocket watch and his hand slid into mine, pulling me toward the lower entrance.

I nearly gasped when we got inside the entrance hall. The change of mood from what it had just been in the chartroom was shocking. The lights were on and bright; the piano and band were cheerfully pounding out the jumpy notes to _Alexander's Ragtime Band_. Passengers were gathered and talking in little knots as though this were a social outing. Laughter rang out suddenly. I practically shivered-- despite the lifejackets they wore, none of these people seemed to have the faintest clue that the ship was sinking right from under them. 

Thomas looked around slowly, eyes pleading as if begging the ship to reconsider sinking. I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking it myself. All this grandeur and beauty. . . all this magnificence and expensive decor. . . all of it would never again be seen. It would be gone for good, belonging to the ages. All the sweat and blood and soul put into this ship would amount to nothing in less than two hours.

He noticed the band playing then, and his eyes grew large and round. "Unbelievable." he murmured. "This isn't a--"

"Care for a drink, sir and madam?" a steward stopped before us, holding out a silver platter of brandies. 

Thomas stared at him, and turned to me, looking as though he was trapped in a nightmare. "We've. . ." he didn't even finish, just started walking again, slowly, heading for the grand staircase.

I looked up at the magnificent ceiling, at the wooden banister, at the gorgeous clock, knowing it was all doomed, no one would ever--

"Mr. Andrews!"

Thomas flinched as though he had been hit and turned around so quickly he nearly lost his balance. I turned as well, and looked down into the face of Rose DeWitt Bukater. I noticed Cal and Ruth hovering in the background, talking quietly. Rose was staring intently up at Thomas. "I saw the iceberg." she said quietly. "And I see it in your eyes. . . please tell me the truth."

Thomas glanced at me, and then back down at Rose, looking like a lost little boy. He put a hand on her shoulder and walked back down to the bottom of the steps. "The ship will sink." he said finally.

Wide-eyed, Rose said, "For certain?"  


"Yes. In an hour-- or so." Thomas' eyes skated around the room for a brief instant. "All this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic."

Cal was nosing in. "What?"

"Please tell only who you must," Thomas was continuing. "I don't want to be responsible for a panic." His hand tightened on her shoulder. "And get to a boat, quickly. _Don't wait_. You remember. . . what I told you about the boats?"

Rose nodded, and my stomach rolled as I remembered again that there wasn't near enough lifeboats to get all the passengers safely off of the ship. A shot of adrenaline hit my veins as I realized: _More than half the people onboard are going to drown._

Thomas nodded to Rose slightly, then turned away again, slowly climbing the stairs. I followed, and nearly tripped on the first step. My breath caught in my chest as I realized why I'd stumbled-- the stairs were tilting slightly. 

I squashed my fears and hurried after Thomas; he was at the top of the stairs when suddenly Second Officer Lightoller went dashing by. Thomas stopped him. "Any news, Mr. Lightoller?"

"They sent out the CQD." Lightoller said. "And we're getting ready to lower the first boat. I've been ordered to get some of the passengers outside." He brushed on by.

Thomas didn't move for a long moment. Then he seemed to remember something, because he flinched slightly as he had done on the stairs, and turned to me, speaking quickly. "Carrie, I'm sorry-- I've been a fool. I've got to get you to a lifeboat. You--"  


"Are you crazy?" I said, knowing he was going to say this sooner or later. "I'm not leaving without you."

"Carrie, no-- listen to me." his eyes were pleading again. The look tore at my heart, but I refused to back down, even as he gathered my hands in his and moved so close that our foreheads nearly touched. "I need to know that you're safe before I can do anything else. Don't make this any harder than it already is."

"Thomas," I said, squeezing his hands. "You know it's pointless to argue. I'm not going, and if you have to drag me-- well, I've been practicing those self-defense moves."

"Carrie--"  
  
"There's work to do here, Thomas. I can stay and help. I know this ship too well to abandon it now." I reached up and pushed my fingers into the hair at the back of his head, and softened my voice. "I know _you_ too well to abandon you now."

For a long beat, he was silent. Then he let out a breath. "Alright. Alright, you don't have to go yet. But listen-- if we get separated, and you get a chance to get onto a lifeboat, _take it_. I don't want you running back to find me." His urgent eyes burned into mine. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." I whispered, though I didn't know how in the world I'd ever be able to leave without saying good-bye. "I understand."

He nodded, just slightly. "Good." Thomas straightened slightly after a gentle kiss on my cheek. "Look, you're right-- we've got work to do. First thing I want to do is go through the living quarters and make sure that no one else is still in their rooms."

"Sounds good." I said, and five minutes later, knocked sharply on the white-washed first class door before me. No one answered; I pushed the door open and called, "Anyone in here?" No reply. I moved on to the next door; Thomas was doing the same on the other end of the hall. "Hello-- anyone in here?" Again, no reply. I tried the third door. "Anybody in here?"

"Yes," a voice called from the inside. "Could we have a hand?'

I opened the door and poked my head around; there was a family of three standing in the foyer. The two adults were trying to figure out how to tie the lifebelts, while who was apparently their daughter stood beside them, eyes wide with fear as she looked on. She seemed hardly three years younger than I. "You guys need to get to the boat deck," I said. "Need help with the lifejacket?"

"Would you please?" the mother asked, looking at me with deer-in-the-headlight eyes. 

"Sure." I said, stepping forward. I looked at the girl. "Can I demonstrate on you?" She nodded; the mother passed me the lifejacket. "Okay, you want to put your head through the hole in the middle there-- just like that-- then the cords are at the sides, and you bring them to the front to tie them, through the little loops here. Then you do the same thing at the bottom." 

"Thank you, miss." the father said kindly. "Don't know what we would have done otherwise."

"You're welcome," I said, feeling pleased that I'd been able to help. "Now you guys better get up to the boat deck." I turned toward the door, but someone caught my arm just as I was stepping out. It was the father, and he had put distance between himself and his wife and daughter. 

"Is there real danger, then?" he said, lowering his voice.

"I'm afraid so," I told him, just as quiet. "I'm sorry. We've got maybe an hour and a half before the ship goes under."  


The man bit his lip. "And they're only taking women and children in the lifeboats, aren't they." It wasn't a question.

"They are." I said, feeling horrible all of the sudden. This kind man, with a wife and child, probably had no chance. 

"You seem to know what you're doing." he muttered. "Any suggestions as to how we can all get off safely?"  
  
I shook my head slowly. "None that I know of, sir. Just check both sides of the ship before you go sending them off into a boat. Sometimes some officers can be less strict than others when it comes to who boards the lifeboats."

He nodded, slowly. "Thank you very much, miss. . ."

"Stevenson," I said, shaking his hand. "Carrie Stevenson. And you are. . ."

"Tim Breckenridge." he said. 

I did my best to smile. "I hope I'll see you and your family later."  


"So do I, Miss Stevenson."

"Carrie?" Thomas was poking his head around the door, lifejacket bulky around his coat. "I didn't see you and I--"

"This family was having trouble with their lifebelts." I said, turning to Thomas. "They needed some help."  


Thomas nodded to Breckenridge and his wife and daughter, then I followed him as he ducked out of the room. "Let's move on-- port corridor."

Halfway down the hall, I stopped suddenly. "Thomas, wait!" He slowed down, as well, eyes confused but concerned.

"What is it?" he asked.

I felt terrible. "Thomas, I've forgotten all about Jack and Fabrizio, and Tommy. . . I have to go down and make sure they got word about this and that they're alright. And while I'm there I could make sure all the third class passengers are out of their rooms." I added the last part as an afterthought.

I could tell he was wavering between letting me go and making me stay. "Alright." he said finally. "Alright. Go. But when you're done, don't come looking for me if you get that chance to leave."

"Where will you be?" I asked, a spasm of fear clutching me suddenly. This might be good-bye for good.

"After this I'm going up onto the deck to see if I can assist the officers with loading the boats, then. . . I don't know." his hand slid up to touch my cheek with fingers that trembled; somehow I got the distinct feeling that he knew but hadn't yet accepted.

"Just take care of yourself, okay?" I stepped forward and kissed him; he only deepened the kiss, holding me against him, the lifebelts making it seem like there were leagues between us. I breathed in his delicious aftershave and pipe smoke smell, and somehow it comforted me a little.

"I will," he said finally when we pulled back. "You take care of yourself, as well."

I couldn't take my eyes off of him, and there was a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that this might be the last time I'd ever see him. I tried to nod, and to smile.

He managed the smile better than I did. "Go," he murmured at last. "Don't make it any harder on my heart."

A final quick kiss and I hurried down the hallway, brushing past the Breckenridge family as I did so. Suddenly I didn't care if I got a hundred chances to take a lifeboat-- I was coming back to find Thomas again.

No matter what happened. 

No matter what it took.


	7. Chapter Seven

Author's Note: Okay, it's official-- I have the world's best reviewers!! You guys are AWESOME with those reviews!!! Thank you so much for taking the time to do so. By the way, it's interesting that so many people are bringing up what the ending will be. Whether you're giving or suggestion or telling what you wish, just let me say: I've had what happens to Carrie and Thomas in my head from the time I finished the first chapter. Nothing is going to influence that, but it took one hell of a long time for me to decide what to do. I've got it, though. Everything is all worked out. I just gotta write it. Thanks for waiting for this chapter. Next one will be out soon as I can, cause I've got summer reading work to do yet, and school starts next Tuesday. Ick. As usual, reviews are appreciated. Thanks, and enjoy!!!

SEVEN

I got to the elevator only to see its operator barring the entrance with his arm. "I'm sorry, miss." he said automatically as I approached. "The lifts are closed."

I gritted my teeth to keep from saying something inappropriate. "Are the cables out?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

He seemed somewhat surprised that someone was questioning him; he seemed so used to the monotonous I'm-sorry-the-lifts-are-closed. "No, miss, but--"

"Are the boxes damaged?" I refused to back down.

"No--"

"Are the gates locked?"  


"No, but--"

"Then take me down, damn it." I snapped. "I've got to get down there and I am _not_ taking the stairs. Do you understand me?"

"I'm sorry, but I--"

"Have you ever had your nose broken?" I asked him calmly.

"What!?" he said, wide-eyed. "No, I haven't!"

"Then you'd better take me down if you don't want to find out what it's like," I spat, and all but shoved him inside the elevator. "D Deck, _please_."

He turned the crank, keeping his distance from me. D Deck was coming into view when I spoke again. "Look, sorry to push you around." I really did feel kind of bad for the guy. "This was important."

"That's alright," he said, though I could tell he was still pretty petrified as he pulled the gates open, and as he said unthinkingly, "Have a nice evening."

_Yeah, right_. I thought to myself, even as I stepped into the hall.

I turned a corner and was shocked to find that there were people milling around. There were stewards scattered about, trying to get people to move toward the main stairwell. I looked around for a familiar face, and caught sight of Bjorn Gundersen. "Bjorn!" I called over the din of talking people.

He turned, trying to find who it was who'd called just as I hurried up. "Bjorn, have you seen--"  


He knew what I was about to say before I even said it. "Fabrizio and the Irish lad-- what's his name?"

"Tommy." I said breathlessly.

"Right-- they went running by a little earlier, heading for the top. And I haven't seen Jack anywhere."

"Really?" I said dully. Shit.

"Yeah, really." he said. "Now you get up top where it's safer."

Frustrated, not willing to give up, I tried again. "Could he have gone down below?" 

Bjorn said, "I saw him going down about an hour ago, with a redhead girl, but he can't still be there."

"Right. Thanks." I hurried down the hall, knowing damn well that Jack could still be there. Down a stairwell, around a corner, and I found myself on E Deck in a maze of crew passages, closed doors every which way, no one in sight. It would be hell looking for Jack in this mess. "Dammit!" I cried, kicking one of the doors. I managed to chip the paint, but who cared? In less than two hours, no one would know.

"Someone out there?" 

"Jesus!" I jumped a mile at the thick Irish voice that came from the other side of the door I'd just kicked. "Yeah, I'm here." I pushed open the door--

And stared right into the face of my attacker from the other day.

His wrists were handcuffed to a thick pipe, and he was standing on the other side of the tiny room, no more than five feet away from me. For a moment we just stared at each other, wide-eyed. "Holy shit." I breathed, and raised my voice. "Holy _shit_! It's _you_!"

"Please, Miss Stevenson." he said, looking purely frightened now. "Ye've gotta help me. The ship's sinkin' right from under us. Don't y'let me drown down here!"  


"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," I snapped, and was briefly reminded of Thomas' words to me Saturday evening. "You deserve it, if anything!"

"I know," he said, and I noticed that his eyes were red from recent tears. "I know. And I'm sorry for what I did to y'Friday. I really am. I've had a lot of time to think about it-- but please, miss, y've got to help me. Drownin's me worst fear!"

"If I take off the handcuffs you'll attack me again." I said. "I'm not stupid, mack."

"I won't." he said, whimpering. "Y've got my word as an Irishman. At least let me have a chance to get out of this alive."

I wanted to leave him there, I really did. Yet I couldn't. I couldn't leave him facing certain death-- hell, that was right up there with murder. At least letting him go would give him a small chance, and that was better than leaving him.

"You swear you won't touch me?" I said threateningly. 

"I won't."

"You do," I said thickly. "And I'll kill you." I didn't mean it. Not really. _But, _I thought to myself as I searched for the key, _You might not have a choice if he won't let go of you this time._

I found it, a tiny brass one, and went to unlock the handcuffs, keeping my distance. When he was free, I snapped, "Now get the hell out of here before I kick you out myself."

He bolted without a second glance back. 

"You're welcome!" I yelled after him, then stepped out into the hallway myself, heading down the corridor, looking for Jack. "Jack!" I hollered loud as I could. "_Jonathan Nathaniel Dawson! Where the hell are you?!_" 

I stopped after rounding a corner, catching my breath. "Ja_--_"

I was cut off mid-sentence by two thick arms wrapping chokingly around my neck and pulling me backwards; I tried to cry out but my air was cut off. The arms released and I fell backward toward the floor. Just in time, I managed to roll as I hit the ground, avoiding much damage. I looked up and at the very man I'd just released from his handcuffs two minutes ago. "You goddam liar!" I snarled as I struggled to my feet. "You--"

He charged then; I dove out of the way and his elbow slammed into the wall instead of my stomach. As he tried to recover for his miss, I managed to thrust-kick him in the small of his back, sending him crashing into the wall; he recovered amazingly fast and turned again, grabbing for any part of me that he could reach. Caught a little off guard, I straight punched his nose, and then suddenly, just like last evening, I was trapped in a headlock.

"Give me your lifebelt!" he snarled as I fought for sight of the back of his knee. 

"You bastard!" I yelled. "You can get a goddam lifebelt at the top of the ship!"

There was a tiny click, and a sharp steel blade was brandished in front of my face. "You'll give it too me if y'want to keep that face."

Oh. _Crap_. "Well maybe if you'd let off a bit I'd give it to you!" I said, staring wide-eyed at the switchblade. There was no way a lifejacket was worth my life. He did loosen his grip a little, and I quickly untied the lifebelt. He yanked it off over my head, re-pocketing the knife. "Ouch! Now look, you moron, don't you--"

He pulled back his fist and hit, in half a second. I reacted like lightning, blocking his punch and drawing his face into my oncoming fist, nose cartilage snapping under my fingers. The man cried out in pain as he sank to the ground and blood dripped down the sides of his face. Shaking violently, I began to back away. Without warning, he made one final lunge; I hit him again, and this time he stayed down, eyes rolling back into his head.

For a second I stared at him, then at the blood on my knuckles. "Holy shit." I breathed, fearing I really had killed him. Extremely wary, I bent down and touched his wrist, looking for a pulse. To my relief, I found one, and dropped his wrist. He was just unconscious, then. He'd wake up eventually-- and I'd be far away by then. 

I began to step away down the hall, when suddenly the glow of the lights dimmed severely. I froze, horrified, watching the lighting waver from dark to bright, as though trying to decide which it liked better. I struggled not to panic as the lights remained dim; I couldn't even see the five feet across the hallway. If the lighting did go off, there was no way I'd ever find my way back up to the top. I'd be trapped, doomed to run the corridors blindly until the water spilled in and grew higher and higher until--

The lights flickered again and came back on, staying on this time. I let out a long breath of relief, then kept going. A minute later, a steward suddenly hurried around the corner ahead of me, and up the hall in my direction, a stack of lifebelts under his arm. His nose was bloody, and he looked half crazy. "Excuse me," I said to him as we approached, gulping. 

He hardly glanced at me, but swept right on by with a "You shouldn't be down here."

"Wait a second," I said, hurrying after him. "Are there any more passengers down here?"

"None, miss, none!" he said, still rushing. "None worth staying for!"

"What are you-- Jesus, will you wait a second!?"

He did slow down a bit. "Miss, please, we've got to keep moving."

"Just tell me-- did you see a medium-height guy, brownish blonde hair, blue eyes--" Thinking of something, I added, "-- and he might have been with a redhead girl."

The steward hesitated. "Was his hair sort of longish?"  


"Yes," I said quickly, thinking, _He knows!_

"I saw him above decks when the berg hit." the steward said. "With his redhead."

"Are you _sure_?" I asked him.

"Positive." he said, and hurried on by.

I took in and let out a deep breath. Jack was safe. And no matter where he was, I was sure he'd heard about how the ship was sinking. And. . .I looked down at the ground, which was now visibly listing. If he didn't know, he'd have at least gone somewhere to find out what the hell was wrong with the floor. Yeah. Of course he would have. Jack wasn't stupid.

I raced up the stairwell and found myself back on the crowded D Deck. I stopped another steward. "Can I take the main stairwell to get out of here?" I asked him, knowing there was no way I could get the elevator operator back.

"Of course, miss." he said, and brushed on by.

Halfway there, I stopped in my tracks, straining my ears for the odd sound I was hearing coming from the direction of the main stairwell. . . and then I realized. It was the noise of an angry mob-- of furious, fearful people. I heard shouting, even a few notes of wailing, and an overall sound of commotion. 

Suddenly my breath caught in my chest. I understood why the mob was there. My feet moved under me; I practically ran toward the main stairwell. I remembered, very vaguely, Thomas mentioning the fact that there were gated sprinkled everywhere in the third class that were locked at night, mostly to keep the hard-partying steerage passengers away from the first class. No doubt the commotion was caused by the fact that the gate was locked.

A terrible, hot rage boiled inside of me as I hurried along, pushing past passengers on my way. How _dare _they keep people locked down here like common dogs!? Maybe, if the grandest ship on the face of planet earth wasn't sinking, it would be different. But the grandest ship on the face of planet earth _was_ sinking, and we were trapped.

Without warning, I felt a familiar spasm of panic gripping my heart; my breath came short and I nearly slowed down. The panic had been brought on by one word alone: trapped.

The cold realization settled over me. Not only would we drown down here, but I'd never see Thomas again. Maybe not even Jack and Fabrizio, and Tommy. I'd never know if any of them lived through this, or if they'd ever know what had happened to me. 

At that moment, I reached the stairwell and stared, wide-eyed, at the throng gathered. People were crammed on the stairs, around the stairs, everyone trying to get to the top, where the gates had been closed. On the other side of the gated, stewards were trying to shout at the mass to keep calm, but that only seemed to make the people shout louder.

This was madness. Somebody had to put a stop to this, and get them to open the gates. I wove in and out of passengers as I hurried toward the top of the stairs, toward the gate. I called to a mousy looking steward, "Open the gates!"

He completely ignored me.

"You can't keep us locked up when the ship is sinking right from under us!" I hollered, my knuckles white as I gripped the bars, my voice barely carrying over the sound of everyone else's shouting. I nearly slipped on the step from all the pushing, but a strong hand caught my shoulder; I looked up and into the eyes of Tommy Ryan.

"Ryan!" I said, shocked, but intensely relieved. "Thanks."

"Welcome." he said quickly, letting go of my shoulder. "What're y'doing down here?" 

"Trying to find you guys." I said as we both stumbled against the heaving mass. "Where's Fabrizio and Jack?"  
  
"Fabrizio ran off to find another way out, and I don't know where the bloody hell Jack is."

"Damn." I said bitterly, and was nearly knocked against the bars as somebody behind me got pushed. The shouting only continued to swell in volume.

"Can't understand it!" Tommy burst out, his voice slightly strangled. He looked toward the steward again, and cried, "Are y'going to drown every man, woman, and child below C Deck!?"

A man on Tommy's other side shook his head. "It's no use." he said, and turned to head back down the stairs.

Tommy's eyes locked with mine for a moment, then he looked toward the stewards again. My heart went out to Tommy; his expression was so pained, and hopeless-- not unlike the one that Thomas had been wearing earlier. "Will y'ever open the gates!?" he demanded. 

"We'll open them when we get word." the steward snapped. 

"Well how long's that?" Tommy wanted to know, but was ignored again. Furious, he snapped, "Y'can't keep us locked down here like animals; the ship's bloody sinkin'!"

"Tommy, this is ludicrous." I told him. "If they haven't opened them five minutes from now, then we have to move. We can't afford to waste any more time."

He nodded, slowly. "Right." he agreed, hands still gripping the cold bars of the gate. "You're right." We both looked back toward freedom as a steward stepped forward, a ring of keys in his hand. 

"Bring forward the women!" the mousy steward was calling. "No men!" he turned to his friend with the key ring. "Unlock the gates," he said.

Tommy all but pushed me forward as Key Ring pushed a key into the lock. "What the hell are you doing!?" I said, twisting around to face Tommy. "You heard what he said! I'm not leaving unless it's with you!"

The Irishman stared at me, his expression desperate. "Carrie, don't--"

"I meant what I said, and I said what I meant." I told him, softening my voice. "If they don't let you out, we'll find another way. Got it?"

Tommy finally nodded. "Yes. I've got it."

The gates were pulled open two feet, and the shouting swelled in volume. A woman hurried through, and then the man behind her tried to pass as well. "_No men_!" the mousy steward was hollering. "No men!" 

"What the--" I said, bewildered, as they tried to yank the gates closed again. And suddenly the crowd was done with being angry. The word now was 'enraged'. People struggled to get through the gates, but I watched, horrified, as the stewards forced axe handles through the bars, hitting the men to keep them back, trying to push them back. 

"Lock the gates!" the mousy steward was shouting again, loading a small palm pistol and then brandishing it at us. "Lock them!" 

My knees felt watery at the sight of the pistol. Why weren't they letting us out? They were willing to shoot us because we wanted to live!? 

Tommy, absolutely shaking with fury, his eyes blazing, grabbed onto the bars again and bellowed, "_For God's sake, man, there are women and children down here!_"

The steward actually stopped shouting and stared at him.

Tommy wasn't finished. "_Let us out so we can have a chance!_"

The steward didn't move.

"That's it." Tommy said, pointing angrily at the steward before struggling to turn around. "We're finding another way out. Come on." I was right behind him as we fought through the crowd toward the bottom, so I heard him when he cried, "Jack!"

I looked up; there was Jack, along with the young DeWitt Bukater, Rose, at the bottom of the stairs. Despite the fact that both of them were soaked through with water, relief washed over me-- Jack was safe. "Tommy!" Jack said, just as surprised to see us. "Carrie! Can we get out?"  


"It's hopeless that way!" Tommy said over the noise, just as I noticed that around Jack's wrists were what appeared to bee handcuffs that had been broken at the chain in the middle. 

Jack himself was clearly racking his brain for any idea as he spoke. "Well, whatever we do, we've gotta do it fast."

"Jack!" the voice came from our left; I looked to see Fabrizio fighting toward us from one of the hallways. There was a light stubble over his chin, but his dark eyes were fierce as ever, and I again was relieved. We were all together-- for now. "Carrie!"

"Fabrizio!" Jack and the Italian exchanged a brief hug. 

Fabrizio noticed that his shirt was damp, and glanced at Jack's, noticing that it was saturated with water. He turned back to us. "The boats are all going!" Fabrizio said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

"This whole place is flooded." Jack said quickly. "We've got to get out of here."

"There is _niente_ thees way." Fabrizio told us, gesturing toward the corridor from which he'd just emerged.

Suddenly I remembered the hours that Thomas and I had spent poring over charts and blueprints, how he'd taken so much time to show me the intricate mazes of corridors in the bowels of the ship. "We should try that way," I said, motioning over Jack's shoulder toward yet another branch of passages, my voice nearly choked as I remembered sitting so close to Thomas, his expert hands gliding over the blueprints.

"What's that way?" Jack asked, blue eyes urgent.

"There's another way up," I said, remembering more clearly now as I forced myself to think. "A back passage. The stairs go right up to C Deck."  


"Lead the way," Tommy told me, and I glanced at them all, seeing nothing but trust in their expressions. I had to get us out of this one.

"Okay." I said, pushing my way past Jack. "Let's go."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I stopped; Tommy and Fabrizio nearly ran into me. "Come on!" Tommy urged, but I was staring at the paths before us. I had two choices: continue straight, or go right, into another passage, and I couldn't remember which way the diagram had said the stairs were.

"I can't think--" I tried to explain, even as my mind whirled. I closed my eyes, tried to concentrate and _quit panicking_, breathe, dammit! "-- To the right." I burst out. "It's this way!" I led them through the corridor where people were still milling around. I felt nearly sick to my stomach when I saw a man trying to coax his wife to move; she was kneeling on the floor crying, trying to shout to her husband in what seemed like Syrian.

"Here it is!" I said as we rounded a bend and the stairwell I'd been looking for came into view. 

"How'd you know all this, Carrie?" Jack asked as we all took the stairs two at a time.

"She's got the master shipbuilder for a friend," Tommy said; I glanced back and saw that savage gleam in his eye. "Or maybe 'friend' is an understatement."

"You're just jealous." I taunted him as we reached the top of the stairs-- and then I looked ahead. Cold adrenaline raced through my veins as I realized that I'd led us to a dead end.

There was another locked gate drawn across the hall hardly seven yards from the last step. Several people were clustered around it, trying to convince the steward on the other side to unlock the gate, but the steward was insisting on their return to the main stairwell.

Jack stepped ahead, taking my hand when he noticed me slowing. He pulled me through the tiny crowd and right to the front, our companions close behind. "Open the gates." he said, voice charged with anger.

"Go back down the main stairwell." the steward said again. I wanted to smack him.

"Open the gates right now!" Jack snarled, raising his voice, pointing an angry finger at the steward. 

"Go back down the main stairwell like I told you!" the steward repeated. 

Jack turned back to look at us, the anger gone, replaced by a look of utter hopelessness and defeat. I was sure my own face mirrored his. This was ridiculous. We'd never get out now. My throat tightened. God, this couldn't be hap--

In an instant the rage returned to Jack's eyes, and he spun around, releasing my hand to grab the bars. Shaking them so that they clanged loudly, he hollered, "_God _damn_ you sonuva_bitch_!_"

It was so loud and forceful that I actually stepped back; I had no idea that Jack was capable of such anger. Wide-eyed, I watched him whip around, his eyes searching the tiny space of the corridor. He dove for a heavy wooden bench in the side of the hall, trying to rip it out of the floor, and I knew at once what he was doing. I ran to help; together we yanked it as Jack called, "Fabri, Tommy, give us a hand here!" The wooden part of the floor came up and splintered with the bench as Rose tried to move the bystanders out of the way of the gate.

Jack, at the back of the bench, facing the gate, face contorted with fury, shouted, "_One!_"

"Stop that!" the steward was yelling. "Stop that! Put that down!" his friend had already high-tailed out of there.

I was on the same side as Fabrizio; Tommy held the other side of the bench. My fingers tightened around the wood. "_Two_!" Anger coursed through me. Goddam stewards couldn't do this. We're human _beings_. Enough with the class system! "_Three_!"

We ran at the gates with the bench, Jack giving an almighty cry as we did so. The gates buckled slightly, but nowhere near enough. "_Again_!"

"Stop that!" the steward was still shouting as we ran at the gates; this time they were torn halfway from the wall, but it was enough; we dropped the bench over the gate. Fabrizio hopped through; I followed. Jack was next behind me, then Rose, and finally Tommy. "You can't go up that way!" the steward was still squealing. "You can't go th--" Tommy viciously punched him in the face, and the man went down. 

We hurried up the hallway together and found another stairwell. The muscles in my legs burned as we climbed, but I took no notice. Instead I was thinking of Thomas, and how he'd told me that he would be on deck for awhile.

Keyword: _awhile_.

Please, God, don't let me have missed him. 

I don't know how I'll be able to find him otherwise.


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. Rough week. . . been trying to squeeze the last-minute summer reading and math homework in. School starts Tuesday, so the next chapter probably won't be up til Friday or Saturday. Sorry about that :-( But thanks again for all the reviews!!! They are MUCH appreciated-- it's a really good feeling to go to my mailbox and see one of those review alert emails. Thank you all for taking the time to review. Oh, and an historical note for this chapter: I've heard two different stories. One is that Will Murdoch didn't actually commit suicide, but rather, he gave his lifejacket to a passenger and went down with the ship. The other is that supposedly, either Murdoch or Henry Wilde shot themselves that night, but no one seems to be sure which officer it was. Considering that Murdoch's home town in Scotland got reeeeally pissed off at James Cameron when the movie came out for the whole Murdoch-shoots-two-passengers-then-kills-himself-too, I'd go with the first one. But I am trying to follow the movie the best I can . . . anyway, enjoy, and please review if you have time!! 

EIGHT

I was the first one out the door to the deck, so naturally it was I who was hit first with the gust of a shockingly cold breeze that swept over the boat deck. I looked around as the others spilled out behind me, half searching for Thomas, an involuntary shiver running the length of my spine. It was my first time out to the deck since Thomas and I had gone inside after the escapade in the chartroom, and the change was incredible.

Before, there had only been crewmen every few feet, rushing around, trying to get the falls hooked up to the davits. Now, it was nearly pure chaos. Passengers rushed every which way, desperate to get to a lifeboat. Crewmen hurried back and forth among them. And the _noise_-- there was sound ranging from quiet talking to thunderous shouting. I jumped a mile as a flare went off high above our heads, letting off a series of explosive pops. 

"C'mon!" Jack said; I shook myself from my daze and followed as he launched himself on the railing to see farther down the ship. 

"The boats are gone!" Rose cried, and as I looked, I saw she was almost right. There were a mere two boats, way up near the stern. 

Je-sus. Two lifeboats. Remembering the blueprints again as we raced to get to the other side of the ship, I glanced to the highest decks, where I saw the two collapsible boats, far to the front of the ship. Okay, four lifeboats left. That sure as hell didn't leave much time to find Thomas.

I nearly ran into a squat, well-dressed gentleman; I tried to keep going with a "sorry", but Rose said, "Colonel!" I looked again, and recognized the man this time-- he'd been one of the people sitting at the table with us during dinner Saturday. "Are there any boats on that side?"

"No, miss," he said to Rose. "But there are a couple of boats all the way forward. This way; I'll lead you."

But we were already gone, becoming part of the chaos as we rushed toward the bow.

_Okay, _I thought to myself as we went. _You absolutely _have _to get back to Thomas before you leave. You are NOT going anywhere until you see him again. _But then . . . suddenly a new thought came to mind. _Are you honestly going to get into a lifeboat and leave Thomas behind on a sinking ship!? You can't!!_

"Jack," I said, hurrying to the front of our group as we jogged along. "Jack, I can't stay with you guys. I have to find Thomas."

"I don't think so." he said incredulously. "We've got to get you on a boat."

"I'm not getting off yet," I said firmly. "I've got to see him again." as an afterthought, I added, "You'd do the same for Rose."

Jack glanced over at the soggy redhead next to him, and when his eyes returned to mine, they had softened quite a bit. "You're right." he said quietly, slowing down until we could stop.

"What's all this?" Tommy said, staring from me to Jack.

"She's going to find Andrews." Jack told him, and reached out to squeeze my shoulder. "Be careful, alright?"  
  
"You got it," I said, knowing full well that this could be the last time I saw Jack. Or any of them. I glanced at Tommy.

"You're insane." he decided, and a short distance away, I heard the familiar strings of the band picking up "Orpheus." "How're y'gonna make it to a boat?"

"I don't know yet," I said, pained at Tommy's upset expression. "But I'm not leaving without saying good-- good-bye to him." My breath had caught in my chest at the word "good-bye", and it began to sank in that if Thomas and I couldn't both find a boat, it really would be so long for good.

There was a long pause, in which Tommy looked at Jack and Fabrizio, and back at me. "Then go," Tommy told me gently, eyes terribly sad. "No one's stoppin' y'."

I turned to Fabrizio, realizing that this might be good-bye for us as well. "Fabri, I--"

Fabrizio kissed me on both cheeks. "Go to him, Carrie." he said, dark eyes sad but accepting. "_Amore_ finds a way. Always."

My lower lip trembled as I tried to smile. "Guys. . ." Tommy held me in a quick but tight hug; I closed my eyes, silently cursing at his lifebelt. Though thin, it seemed to keep us at such a distance, just as it had with Thomas earlier in the hall. "Thanks." I said to all of them, swallowing hard. "Thanks for everything."

Jack nodded slightly. "Go, Carrie."

I forced myself to move, fighting burning tears. _Cry later,_ I thought to myself, and, feeling numb, realized that I probably would be doing a lot of it when this whole thing was over. . . if it ever was over. God, it seemed like ages ago that Thomas and I had stood together in the chartroom, and he'd nearly fallen apart. 

_Stop it_! It was as though my conscience had just yelled in my ear. _Quit thinking about the past and the future! Start thinking about right _now_! Where can you go to search for Thomas!?_

You can't waste time just scouting for him, I realized. _It'll take too long-- you'll never find him. . . _

A crewman rushed past me, and I was struck with an idea. All I had to do was find an officer, a first-class passenger-- anyone who would know Thomas, and ask if they'd seen him nearby, or what direction he'd gone in. I nearly nodded. Yeah, that was a good plan. I took off, heading for the stern section.

As I went, my ears again picked up the jumpy notes to the finishing sweep of "Orpheus". The band, I realized. They know Thomas, and they might have seen him going by. I hurried in their direction, and they came into view hardly ten seconds later. Wally Hartley, the violinist, was just about to start another piece; I hurried to catch him before he did so.

"Mr. Hartley!" I called, and skidded to a halt before him, nodding to the other members. "Hi. Look, sorry to interrupt you guys-- I dunno if you remember me from the other night--"

"Miss Stevenson," Hartley said warmly, extending his hand in greeting. "Yes, we remember you well. One hell of a night, this one, eh?"

I returned the handshake and couldn't suppress a smile, even as I realized that his fingers were freezing. "Got that right," I said. "Just wanted to know if you've seen Thomas Andrews around."

From the sad look on Hartley's face, I knew he hadn't. "I'm sorry, Miss Stevenson." he said quietly. "Haven't seen him at all." he looked toward the other band members, who gave similar replies.

"Well, damn." I muttered, then smiled at them. "Thanks for the help. You guys, uh. . ." 

Without warning, I felt so saddened that I could hardly breathe. Somehow I knew that the band would be playing until water was sloshing around their heels. They probably had no chance of survival. I looked at each one of them, memorizing their features. It took one hell of a lot of guts to be stationary like this on a sinking ship, denying your screaming instincts to get to higher ground, to try to find a lifeboat. All this to play music that no one heard. 

It was as though Hartley was reading my thoughts, and he said softly, "We'll be alright, Miss Stevenson."

I tried to swallow over the lump in my throat. "Mr. Hartley," I managed. "The name's Carrie."

His smile was sad. "Then you might as well call me Wally."

I tried to force images from my mind of a solitary violin floating on icy black water, stars reflected in its polished surface, tiny waves lapping at its sides. "Thanks again." I looked at all of them. "And thank you for the music."

Wally gripped my shoulder for a moment, nodding ever so slightly. "Thank _you_ for the compliments."

I took in a deep breath. "Can I make a request?"

"By all means."

"Sometime before. . ." I couldn't bring myself to say it. ". . . will you guys play 'Nearer My God to Thee'?"

A tiny, longing smile surfaced on Hartley's face. "We were discussing that earlier, Carrie. Of course we will."

I had to get out of here before I completely broke down. I nodded again to express my gratitude, and forced myself to keep moving, fighting a furious battle with my tears. I won that battle-- for now. 

Ahead of me, I could see two lifeboats being readied to lower, the crowds thick around them. There were bound to be officers there; I hurried toward the nearest boat. I forced my way through the crowd, pushing past shoulders and squeezing between people. Near the boat, I noticed that a man whom I recognized as Fourth Officer Boxhall was escorting the women over the rail to the lifeboat seats. "Mr. Boxhall!" I called over the din.

He turned toward the sound of his name, and held out his hand, gesturing. "Step forward, miss!"

He thought I was trying to get on the boat. I called again. "No, I'm not getting on-- I just wanted to know--"

"Would you please step forward!" he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. 

"Have you seen Thomas Andrews!?" I said, not moving an inch.

"For the last time, miss, will you _please_ step forward--"

"Forget it!" I snapped, turning, knowing that there were plenty of other officers somewhere who could help. In fact, there was one with his back turned by the davits, talking to that crew-- 

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist from behind and yanked me from the floor, spinning me around. "No!" I cried as I was dropped into the lifeboat amid a gaggle of women and children. I looked back at Boxhall, wide-eyed and horrified at what he'd just done. "Get me out of this boat!"

"She's the last!" he was calling to someone near the davits. "Prepare to lower!"  


"_Wh-- no_!" I launched myself toward the rail of the ship to climb back on, but two sets of arms grabbed my wrists and yanked me back into my seat. Dumbstruck, I looked at the women responsible. 

"It's for the best, miss." the one of them said sadly.

"You'll see your man again someday." the other one said.

"You don't understand!" I said, standing up again, only to be pulled forcefully back downward. 

"Mad with grief," one of the women said, shaking her head.

This couldn't be happening! I couldn't leave yet! Jesus, I _cannot stay here!_ I couldn't leave Thomas here without him ever knowing what happened to me, and vice versa! Shaking like mad, I remembered his words to me, how he'd said to take a lifeboat if I got the chance.

And for once, somehow, his words didn't mean chicken shit.

"Lower away!" Boxhall shouted.

I regarded the scene before me in pure shock. It was like being trapped in a nightmare. A sick, twisted, frightening nightmare, except that everything was almost painfully hard and real, instead of dream-like. "You can't do this!" I hollered at Boxhall as the lifeboat began to drop. "_Get me out of this God-damned boat_!"

"Steady, men, steady!" 

I watched the inches grow as the boat was lowered toward the sea. Desperate for help, I looked back toward the officer I'd noticed a few moments ago, thinking that maybe if I knew him, he'd help. Maybe. . . a terrible, impossible hope rose within me. Maybe it would even be--

It was. 

"Murdoch!" I yelled, loud as my voice would allow, relief and fear pounding through my veins at the same time. "Will!" He didn't turn; he was still speaking with the crewmember.

And from the looks of it, he was about to leave.

Somehow I knew that if he left, I might as well abandon all hope for getting out of the lifeboat. "Crazy, I tell you." one of the women latched onto my wrist was saying. "She's absolutely mindless with grief!"

I ignored her. "_Will_!"

Still, the first officer didn't turn. He made a step to move away.

_No!_

I launched myself to my feet, shook off the women, and cupped my hands around my mouth, gathering as much air as my lungs could hold. I bellowed, "_WILLIAM MCMASTER MURDOCH!!!!_"

It worked. He turned at the sound of his name, and, realizing it was someone in the boat, he leaned over the railing. Will's eyes met mine, and then grew wide. "What's the matter?" he called down.

"Get me out of this thing!" I pleaded. "It was a mistake! Boxhall threw me in!"  


Murdoch's eyes turned from surprised to serious. He said quickly to a crewmember. "Slow it, lads, and stop!"

The lifeboat slowed jerkily, and finally stopped.

Murdoch turned back to me, nose pink with the cold. "You want out of this boat?"

"I _need_ out of this boat." I assured him, our eyes still locked across the fifteen feet that separated us. He was my only link to getting back up there. 

Murdoch's eyes finally lifted from mine and flickered toward Boxhall, then back to me. "Well, we can't pull the boat back up," he said. "Can you climb the falls, then get onto the railing?"

I looked at the ropes, then up at the davits. The distance from rope to rail was large, but manageable. "Yeah." I said, climbing through the lifeboat to the left side of it. "Will you give me a hand?"

"Certainly," Murdoch said, and turned to the crew. "Keep it right there, lads, don't move it!" He moved to the part of the rail closest to the rope; there was about four feet separating it.

I looked at the rope. I'd climbed ropes before; it was no big deal-- but I'd never climbed one over a frigid sea into which the world's grandest ship was sinking. Just the sight of it told me that one slip, one misstep could send me hurling three stories into the icy water with no hope of getting back onto the ship.

I gulped and stepped onto the ledge of the boat, taking hold of the rope. "See?" one of the women was saying. "I _told_ you she was mad." 

I tested the falls to make sure that the davits would hold the extra stress, then reached up, tightened my grip, and pulled myself up, locking my legs around the coarse ropes. They were unbelievably stiff from being so taut with the weight of a boat and forty passengers. I pulled myself up another foot, realizing angrily that another twenty people could have sat comfortably in it.

Halfway there, sweat was rolling off of my forehead despite the freezing air and my numb fingers. "Come on," Murdoch was urging quietly, while I forced myself not to look down. "Come on, not much farther. . ."

The muscles in my arms were burning; I gritted my teeth and kept going as the crowd in the lifeboat watched me with bated breath. Murdoch, Boxhall, and the several crew members were also watching this intently. Murdoch's eyes were glassy and wide; Boxhall was watching grimly, clearly ashamed for not keeping me on the deck.

"Okay," I said when I was level with the railing, my arms trembling as I gripped the rope. It was fifteen feet down to the lifeboat, and then three stories to the ocean. 

Murdoch said, "Alright, listen. Reach out your arm to us, and we'll take it. Then you give us your other one, and we'll pull you over."

I nodded, shortly and quickly. "Got it." I slowly removed my hand from the rope; it was red from its work on it, and it trembled. The muscles in my other arm tightened further as the weight of my body was transferred to it. Murdoch, who'd stripped off his gloves, reached out as well, until he could take my arm at just above the elbow, and at the wrist. Boxhall stood close by, ready to assist. 

"Now the other one," Murdoch said, swallowing.

I started to release the rope, then gasped and nearly yanked my other arm away from Murdoch's when I slipped a few inches, realizing that in taking my hand from the rope, I'd go down. 

"It's alright!" Murdoch said quickly, eyes staring intently into mine. "I'm not going to let you go. Trust me, Carrie. You're not going to fall." 

I was trembling violently by this time, knowing that by reaching my other arm out to Boxhall, I'd go down a few feet. I took a deep breath to try to steady myself, and closed my eyes for a moment. _You can do this_, I thought.

Murdoch's hands tightened. "Come on, Carrie." he said quietly. "You'll be fine."

I opened my eyes, staring into his intent ones. I knew I could trust him-- and Boxhall. With a final, quick, silent prayer, I shot my other arm out toward Boxhall.

Just as I suspected, I fell several feet. Such adrenaline rushed through me that I felt about as strong as a newborn puppy; I nearly cried out, but realized that I was safe, hanging in Murdoch's and Boxhall's grip, and that they were slowly pulling me upward. "Need a hand here!" Murdoch hollered. 

I took in another deep breath, my feet hanging into space. I then tightened my own grip on Murdoch and Boxhall, and pulled myself up as well. Another crewman took hold of another part of my arm, and finally, Murdoch was able to get his arm around me. I held onto his neck for dear life as he pulled me the rest of the way over the railing and set me down gently on my feet.

The crowd by the boat cheered and clapped. Murdoch, an arm still supporting me, said to Boxhall, "Take them the rest of the way down." And he drew me to the other side of the davits, by the railing. 

"Will," I said, struggling to breathe properly, still shaking violently. "I don't know how to begin to thank--"

"Don't worry about it," he said gently, smiling a tiny smile at me. "It's alright. You're safe now."

"Thank you," I said, taking in a deep breath of cold air. "Thank you."

He nodded, slightly, then said, "Why is it you wanted to come back up?"

"Thomas." I said simply, meeting his concerned stare. "Listen, I have to get moving-- have you seen him around?"

Murdoch, looking half surprised, said, "He came by and asked me earlier if I'd seen you anywhere. . . after that I saw him heading for the grand stairs entrance."

I nodded, feeling hopeful somehow that Thomas had asked for my whereabouts, but wondered why in the hell he'd chosen to go back inside. "Okay, thanks." I looked at Murdoch then, and felt an all too familiar pang of intense sorrow. He'd never take a lifeboat, I knew that for certain. He was most likely going to stay on the ship until it disappeared into the Atlantic. Suddenly, I realized that I was staring at a man who had probably less than an hour to live. And from the look he was giving me, I knew that he knew it as well.

"Will, I. . ." What do you say to someone who knows that their life is nearing its end? "Thanks for all the help you gave me the other day, and for everything you've done. . . your friendship has been really very valuable to me."

In his eyes I saw that my words had touched a chord; his cheeks reddened even more. "Carrie," he said finally, quietly. "Thank you for that. It means. . . means a lot to me."

I tried to think of something to say in return, but my mind was full of too many thoughts. My lower lip trembling, I could only wrap my arms around him in a tight embrace; he returned it, his freezing ear pressed against my cheek. I was surprised to notice that, under his bulky coat, he was trembling, though from nerves or cold I didn't know-- it was probably a combination of both.

I didn't want to let go at all, knowing deep down that I would never again talk to Murdoch, never see another of his smiles, never be able to obtain any more advice from him. When I finally pulled back, it was an effort to keep my eyes from glazing over with tears. "What's this, now?" Murdoch said gently, seeing the look on my face. I tried to respond, but knew that if I opened my mouth I'd end up sobbing. He knew it, too. "Carrie," he said, one hand on my shoulder, staring intently into my eyes. "Tears won't do you any good, and you know that. Please don't worry about me-- I've lived my life. I'm lucky enough to have been blessed in it with friends like yourself. Whether I survive this night or not. . ." he let out a long breath, nodding shortly. ". . . I'd be satisfied if I didn't."

I tried to smile, wishing I were brave as he. "Right." I managed. "Good. I'm-- I'm glad." 

Murdoch took my hand and raised it to his lips, lightly brushing them over my knuckles (thankfully not the bloodstained ones). "It was a pleasure to meet you, Carrie Stevenson."

I squeezed his hand that held mine. "It was an honor for me to meet _you_, Will Murdoch."

He smiled, a small, quiet smile. "Go find your love." he murmured, eyes sincere.

We released each other's hands, and I turned toward the crowds. I was just stepping forward to head to the grand staircase entrance to find Thomas when suddenly I felt a hand latch onto my shoulder. I turned, half expecting it to be Murdoch, but was surprised to see Second Officer Lightoller there. Murdoch was gone. "Are you Miss Stevenson?" Lightoller said, all business.

"No," I said, wondering why he'd be asking for me. "The name's Carrie."

The barest glimpse of a smile surfaced and then faded on his face. "Very well, then. Carrie. But it is you who was with Mr. Andrews earlier?"

"Yeah, that was me." I said. "Why, have you seen him?"

"Last I saw he was heading for the bow, but that was half an hour ago. Did he teach you much about lifeboats?"

It took me a second to register his abrupt subject change. "Yes, a little."

"Know enough to come give us a hand with the collapsibles?"

I frowned. "Well, sure, but I was--"

"Please." Lightoller said it through his teeth to keep them from chattering, pleading now, the dark turtleneck sweater high around his neck not doing anything to keep the cold out. "We could use the help. Most of the crewmen have run off to save themselves."

I was absolutely torn. I had to get back to Thomas before it was too late, but I couldn't just leave Lightoller when he was asking for help. I never refused anyone when they needed a hand. "Will it take long?" I asked, feeling awful for asking.

"Shouldn't," he said, hope distant in his eyes. "Just need your help getting her down from the roof of the officer's quarters." 

I felt myself nodding. "Alright." I said. "I'll do it."

"Thank you." Lightoller said, a definite smile on his face now. "God in heaven bless you. This way. . ." He led me forward along the ship, not a long distance from where I'd just been. But I noticed, with a jolt to my stomach, that the water wasn't all that far away, the nose of the ship already under. Someone gave me a hand up to the officer's quarters, and then Lightoller passed me a wrench. "Get the nuts off the bolts that keep it to the deck," he instructed over the noise. "Then pull out the bolts."

The chaos of everything surrounding the area seemed to fade into nothingness as I lowered myself onto one knee and began to work on the nuts. It was like I was back in the shipyards, where I'd learned to block the noise of machinery out until I couldn't even hear it. Behind me and the other crewmen, the other collapsible boat was being worked free; I saw it go over the edge of the officer's quarters out of the corner of my eye. 

_Dammit_! I thought to myself as my wrench slipped on one of the nuts. I repositioned it and got back to work, cranking the wrench until I could remove the nut and bolt by hand. _Wonder where Thomas is?_ I thought to myself. _Please don't have given up on me yet, Thomas. I'm coming just as soon as I can._

Five minutes later, Lightoller was by my side again. "Excellent work, Mi-- Carrie." he said, flashing me a quick smile. "If you have somewhere to be, then by all means, go." 

"Thank you, Mr. Lightoller." I said, and looked around. It would be quicker to head aft on the roof of the officer's quarters, then just climb over the rail to get to the grand staircase entrance. I was headed that way when suddenly I heard it: a familiar, Irish-accented voice. "_What th' hell's'a matter with y'?!"_

A cold dread settled over me from head to toe. 

I slowly turned toward the source of the voice, which was to my left, in the direction that the other collapsible had just gone over. Then I saw him-- Tommy Ryan, and Fabrizio, both at the head of a swarm of men trying to get to the boat, which was already half full with women and children. Officers and crewmen were rushing around, trying to get the falls hooked up. One officer-- I recognized it to be Henry Wilde-- was trying to keep the crowd back like a police officer. "Women and children only, damn you!" he was snapping. Another officer was aiming a pistol at the crowd, obviously trying to keep them back. My heart flew into my throat when I realized that the gun-wielding officer was Murdoch. Tommy was the one who'd shouted, eyes blazing at the first officer, Fabrizio close by Tommy's side.

"Get back!" Murdoch was hollering, his voice raw from shouting, no warmth at all in his eyes-- instead they were beady and wide, but desperately angry. 

"Will y'give us a chance t' live, _y' limey bastard_!?" Tommy cried, but his powerful words did nothing, just as they hadn't in the stairwell. It killed me to see two of my closest friends so angry at each other-- but not like they knew that the other one was my friend.

"I'll shoot any man who tries to get past me; get _back_!" Murdoch yelled it again, pistol outstretched before him. 

Frozen, I watched as a tuxedoed man stepped forward and muttered something to Murdoch. It hit me like a slap in the face when I realized that the tuxedo guy was Cal Hockley. What the hell was he doing!?

My question was answered when Murdoch, staring murderously at Cal, reached into his own pocket and threw a wad of bills at the passenger. They fluttered away; Murdoch shook his head slightly and murmured something back to Cal, hopelessness flickering in his features before the hardened anger returned. Cal had been trying to buy off Murdoch. "Get _back_!" and he pushed Cal into the crowd.

Without warning, a man vaulted over the edge of the lifeboat toward Murdoch, who rounded on him. I bit my fist to keep from screaming as the pistol went off, deafeningly loud; the man fell to the ground with a strangled cry. 

Shaking from head to foot, I looked back toward Tommy and Fabrizio, almost to see if they were alright-- but at that moment, the crowd surged forward behind Tommy. 

It happened seemingly in slow motion.

Tommy couldn't do anything. He was pushed along with the crowd, and right at Murdoch-- who, in his panic at just having killed a man, thought that Tommy was trying to attack him-- and he fired again. 

I cried out and sucked in a strangled gasp as I realized what was happening.

As the gunshot echoed into nothingness, Tommy grimaced and stumbled backwards; Fabrizio had him before he hit the ground. "Tommy!" Fabrizio cried, struggling to hold the Irishman's head up as blood spilled from Tommy's lips, lifeless eyes staring into space. Fabrizio looked up at Murdoch, eyes furious. "_Bastardo_!" he cried.

I was absolutely gaping at Murdoch, my nerves completely shot, frozen where I stood. He was realizing what he'd done now. The anger had faded from him; he was wide-eyed and utterly shocked at what had just happened. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes traveled to the ground, where Tommy's blood was sliding down the deck in thick red streaks. Numbly, he stepped out of the way, and looked slowly back at a crewman, whose return glance showed no sympathy. 

Murdoch just as slowly turned toward Wilde. I watched, horrified, as Murdoch instantly straightened his shoulders and clicked his heels together, his hand snapping to his forehead in a salute.

I knew exactly what he was doing, but all speech had escaped me. Murdoch's saluting hand dropped, and his other hand raised the pistol to his temple, eyes blank but somehow very set.

I found my voice and shouted just as Wilde did, and both of us with the same words: "_No, Will!_"

Murdoch's eyes shot up to mine just as his finger tightened on the trigger; I jumped at the gunshot. He tumbled backward into the icy water with an almost comic splash, and I turned my head away, shaking violently, this time unable to stop the tears and hating myself for it.

Oh, God! Tommy and Murdoch both-- and Murdoch's last sight of me, staring at him at the lowest point of his life. "I'm sorry," I choked out, somehow feeling so unbelievably ashamed, and then suddenly I was filled with an uncontainable rage. "What did they do!?" I snarled under my breath. "_What the goddam bloody hell did they ever do wrong_!?"

At that point I realized that I had to get myself under control. _Thomas_. I thought to myself. _You've got to get to Thomas. Stop wasting your time!_ I took in a couple of deep breaths, trying to make them steady and slow. I closed my eyes, hoping to calm myself, but all I could see was Murdoch, stepping out of the way of Tommy's blood. . . and Tommy, blood pouring from his mouth. . .

I pulled myself over the railing before me and landed on the deck. Murdoch had said that he'd seen Thomas heading for the entrance, so maybe someone inside would have seen him. I walked quickly, trying to warm my cold limbs, brushing tear streaks from my face. _Cry later_. I told myself again. _Don't go to Thomas looking like an absolute coward. _

Inside, it was blissfully warm and bright. Men were milling around, waiting. It chilled me all over again to see them in their top coats and hats, just waiting patiently for the inevitable. I prayed that Thomas wasn't one of them.

I started down the steps and almost bumped into a steward. "Excuse me," I said to him. "Have you seen Thomas Andrews around?"

"No, mum, sorry." and he was gone, up the steps.

I continued down the grand staircase until I reached the last step, at B Deck. Stepping forward, I caught sight of two people rushing toward me and the steps, and then I realized-- it was Jack and Rose, both of them soaking wet, but Rose wearing a large man's coat and trailing a lifebelt. "Jack!" I cried.

He saw me then and his face flooded with recognition. "Carrie!" he said, and let go of Rose's hand. "What are you doing? Shouldn't you be--"

"Have you seen Thomas?" I asked quickly.

"He's back there." Jack jerked his head behind him, and I won't even start to explain the relief I felt. "In the smoking room."

"Thank--" the relief suddenly faded. "What's he doing there?" I asked, and noticed that Rose's large eyes were downcast. I again looked at the lifebelt in her hand. "That's his lifebelt, isn't it." it wasn't a question.

"He gave it to me." she said quietly. "I didn't even ask."

I knew then, but I pushed the absurd thought from my mind. "Okay. Thanks." I met Jack's blue eyes, and knew deep down that I'd never look into them again. "Look, I better get moving--"

Jack hugged me tightly but briefly, and kissed my cheek. "Thanks for the travels." he said quietly.

"Thank you." I said, and tried to smile. "Good luck."

"Luck." Jack said, and took Rose by the hand again, pulling her up the stairs. I reached the door to the Parisian cafe, which I had to cross to get to the smoking room, and looked back at Jack and Rose one final time. Just before Jack crossed through the door to outside, he turned back. Our eyes met across the distance, his sad but trying to stay strong, and then he was gone, just like that.

_Cry later._

I pushed the door open of the cafe, and it took a good minute to cross the room. Most of the chairs had tipped over, and there was broken glass and china everywhere-- all due to the listing of the ship, which made it hard to walk on. 

I stopped finally before the revolving door of the smoking room. I don't know why I stopped, but there I stood, staring through the glass at the cozily lit room beyond it. _He's on the other side of this door. _I found myself thinking. _The man you've been trying to get to for the past hour and a half. He's right there, and you've both got to get moving._

I stepped forward, and laid my hand on the fine woodwork of the revolving door. I took in a deep breath and pushed the door around as I did so. Finally I could go through and into the smoking room; I stepped in almost hesitantly. At first I didn't see him, but then I looked to my right, by the huge fireplace.

There he was.

He hadn't even turned at the quiet noise from the door. He was staring unseeingly at the painting above the fireplace. There were two half-full brandy glasses before him on the mantle; I half wondered if they were his. I looked at his face, and my heart twisted at his lonely, heartbroken, beaten expression. 

"Thomas." it was a question, a plea, spoken to feel his name on my lips. 

He turned his head, slowly. . . and after an eternity, his blank eyes locked onto mine.


	9. Chapter Nine

Author's Note: Please don't kill me for getting this out so late! Sorry-- I haven't had a lot of time to write this week, and when the story is finished, I might come back and really edit this chapter. Not to change the story, mind you, but some of the smaller details. Anyway, this IS NOT the end yet, there are still more chapters to come. Please please please review if you have the time, and EVERYONE who's reviewed so far-- YOU GUYS ROCK. Thanks!!!! By the way, about this chapter-- the time that passes isn't realistic to the actual event or the movie. Technically, between the time Jack and Rose pass Thomas and the time that the ship goes down-- it's about nine or ten minutes. However, the time here is longer. Sorry bout that. Anyway. . . enjoy! And pleeeeeease review if you can!!

NINE

His empty eyes showed no sign whatsoever of recognition at first. Seconds ticked by; neither of us moved a muscle. Then he said dully, voice hoarse, "My mind's playing tricks on me."

My breath caught in my throat. "Thomas," I tried. "Thomas, it's m--"

"You're not real." he said, voice just as low and hopeless as it had been two seconds ago, his eyes still on mine. "You're not on this deathtrap anymore-- you were put in a lifeboat."

"I got out." I was still shaking like a madwoman, and his non-trust in my presence wasn't helping. "I climbed the falls, and Murdoch helped me over."

His lips parted; he was shocked. "You did that, after I told you. . ." his voice was choked, eyes pained now. ". . . after _I told you to take a boat?_"

I hated that he was upset, but at least he didn't believe I was a figment of his imagination anymore. "I couldn't go without seeing you again." I managed to say, voice trembling. I was so close to being in his arms-- and he in mine-- yet still he was holding this off.

We watched each other, silently, and I couldn't make myself move. "I'd hoped," Thomas murmured finally. "a selfish man's hope. . . and I prayed a selfish man's prayer."

I waited for him to continue and swallowed hard; the look he was giving me absolutely tore at my heart. He shifted now, turning toward me slightly. "I prayed to God that I'd see you one more time."

My knees were practically knocking together. The words were getting to me.

Thomas took a step forward on the uneven floor in my direction, eyes extraordinarily tender, but I could hardly breathe, much less move. "I prayed that somehow I'd be able to look on your face, and hold you in my arms again."

I couldn't speak. My vocabulary had vanished, and my muscles had frozen, not allowing me to move as he slowly stepped closer, my heart breaking at the look on his face.

"And. . ." he trailed off, lifting one shaking hand. ". . . and now here you are. . ." he positioned his hand as if to trace his fingers along my cheek, then balled it into a fist. For a wild moment I thought it was possible that he'd hit me, but the hand fell slowly to his side. ". . . but God hasn't answered thousands of people's prayers tonight, and. . ." He let out a long breath. ". . . I'm still so afraid that if I touch you I'll find out that you're not real."

__

Staring into his eyes, which were a mere foot away, I found myself absolutely speechless. No words would ever encompass everything I wanted to tell him right then. I forced myself to look away from his stare, where I turned my attention to the trembling hand he'd dropped. I spread my palm and fingers, and then slowly pressed them to his. Jesus, just the warmth of his hand was enough to send shivers down my spine and tears to my eyes. I looked back up at him as he drew his palm up, my own palm following.

Thomas' eyes were so relieved that I nearly burst into tears on the spot. His fingers slid around mine, and we gripped each other's hands. "Carrie." his voice was a near whisper. "Sweet Jesus. . . it _is_ you. . ."

My breath was catching in my throat from being so close to him. "Yeah. . ." I couldn't believe that that was the only thing I could say. "Yeah, it's me."

Suddenly I was pulled forward, and so close to him that the only thing separating us was our wardrobe. For a moment, I hung there in his grip, his strong arms around me. My arms slid around him as well, but under his jacket-- the bulkiness of the lifebelts were still in mind, and I wanted to hold _him_, not his coat. Thomas's eyes gazed down into mine, pleading and starved, but so full of love that I could hardly breathe. My heart pounded furiously as his wounded eyes fell closed and he dipped his head half an inch. I closed my own eyes and leaned forward slightly; our lips touched, gently, but it felt like gallons of adrenaline were being pumped through my system. And then Thomas deepened the kiss, one of his hands sliding to the back of my head. That's about the point that we gave up being patient, and began Frenching like two crazed teenagers. Anyone unlucky enough to stumble in on the scene would have _immediately _turned the other way to leave as fast as they could. 

Finally, though, we had to come up for air. Both of us nearly gasping for breath, we just held on to each other for dear life. Then we were right back at it, and suddenly there was a crash and shatter from right beside us.

I jumped a mile at the noise, shaking like crazy, as we both turned toward the source of the noise. An ashtray had slipped off of the coffee table and had shattered on the floor. It was a cold reminder that Thomas and I were both trapped on a sinking ship, and Thomas immediately turned to me. "Carrie, you've got to get out of here. You've got to find a--"

"Me," I said evenly. "What about you?"

"I. . ." his voice was gravelly; his eyes flickered away and then back to mine. "I can't. . ."

And then I remembered the look on Thomas' face when Murdoch had knocked on his stateroom door more than two hours ago. I remembered the quiet, accepting look, one of defeat and resignation. Jesus, I could practically _see_ him standing there, frozen after heading for the deck, and me, also unmoving, staring right back. 

And I realized that he and I both knew all along that he'd never leave the ship.

"Thomas," I breathed. My voice shook. This couldn't be happening. "Thomas, no. _Please_. We've got to--"

"God, Carrie," his arms tightened around me, eyes desperate. "You, of all people, should understand that I can't leave her!"

I did understand. In fact, I understood completely, and it was killing me. _Years_ of his life had been poured into this liner. His sweat, blood, and soul were in every part of every room, every corridor, and every rivet onboard. The _Titanic _was his love, his joy, his pride-- like the firstborn child of a family. Leaving her would be like abandoning a three-year-old to fend for herself in the middle of a military skirmish. Only the _Titanic_ wasn't thee years old, she was on her _maiden voyage_, for Chrissake, and the enemy had delivered a mortal wound. 

I nodded, finally, and tried to take in a trembly breath. Suddenly an idea came to mind. Who ever said anything about leaving? I could just stay here with him. . . we'd go down with the ship we both loved, and be together again in no time. "Thomas." I looked up into his sad eyes. "I'm staying with you."

"No, Carrie." his voice was hard, but it shook. "No. Don't ask me to let you stay."

"But I can't leave you here," I whispered, looking away, my eyes clouding with tears. "I can't leave you. There's nothing left for me in this world if you don't make it."

"How can you say that?" he murmured, so gently.

I couldn't reply; my eyes bored into the purple and red fabric of the loveseat by the coffee table. 

I felt strong but tender fingers slide under my chin, which he tried to pull up for me to look at him. I fought it at first, but gave up, staring into his grieving brown eyes. His fingers didn't move from my chin. "How can you say that?" he repeated slowly.

"All my friends are gone," I told him, my voice choked as I thought of Tommy and Murdoch. "All but you."

"What of Jack, then, and Will--"

"Jack can't make it, and Murdoch. . ." the memory of his eyes locked on mine just before he pulled the trigger was still raw. I couldn't tell Thomas, though. He'd gone through enough already. ". . . he's. . ."

Thomas murmured, "I wasn't exactly speaking in the context of friendship."

"How do you mean?" I asked him dully.

"You're twenty-one, Carrie." he murmured, his hand sliding from my chin to the side of my face. "You've got your entire life ahead of you. What about that position you wanted at Garrison and Wheeler? Imagine where you can go."

I was silent. He was right, in a way. I didn't want to pass up my opportunity with Garrison and Wheeler. Yet I couldn't do it without him, and if I stayed, we could just be together again faster. 

"I refuse to let you stay," he told me, voice cracking, his hand still stroking my cheek. "I'll kick you out if you try. It would break my heart to know that you gave up like this."

_Gave up_. I absolutely couldn't allow him to think me a quitter. I whispered, "Will you at least let me stay for a little while?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then his eyes darted toward the clock on the mantle. "Yes, but. . . when I give the word, then you _go,_ without protest."

I nodded, slowly. "I understand."

He let out a shaky sigh, and I realized that these were my last moments with the man I loved so desperately. "Thomas." it came out as a squeak, and then he was kissing me, my back pressing into the smooth marble work of the fireplace. My arms went around his neck, and we stood there for several moments, pouring out our emotions and words through a silent, deep, passionate kiss.

"Carrie," he said against my lips, finally pulling back slightly.

"Yeah," I said, staring into his eyes, which were heavy from the kiss.

"D'you. . ." we were so close that I could feel his chest shaking as he took a deep breath. ". . . d'you blame me for this?"

My jaw nearly fell open. "_Blame you. _. . blame you for what?"  


"For this. . ." he glanced around. ". . . for the sinking."

"My God, Thomas." I murmured, shocked that he would even think such a thing, and was reminded of our moment in the chartroom. "No. Why would I blame you?"

"Because. . . because the ship was catalogued as unsinkable. Everything that was put into it was supposed to be against something like this. . . it might as well be my fault." Suddenly he burst out, "And I had the power to put in more lifeboats!" he lowered his voice, shaking. "I stood there like a fool and let Ismay have his way with them."

I traced my fingers through his hair, feeling so unbelievably sorry for him. "Thomas, first of all, the ship wasn't catalogued as unsinkable. From the way I heard it, the term used was '_practically unsinkable_', then the public eliminated one of the words." Then I said, "And this ship already has more lifeboats than it should. What's that rule-- any steamer over five tons-- well, you still have more than usual. _You_ did that." I offered him a quick kiss. "Now please. . . stop thinking that it's your fault-- because it's _not_. You weren't even above decks when the iceberg hit."

He slid his arms farther around me with a long, tired sigh. "I just wish. . . I just wish there was something I could do."

I tried to smile. "What do you think you've been doing for the past hour?"

"Well, yes, but. . ." his eyes were halfway between desperate and hopeful. ". . . that hardly seems like enough."

"There's nothing else you _can_ do." I told him gently. "You've done your part. You've put countless people into boats and checked the hallways to make sure no one's left behind."

He nodded, so slightly, and traced his fingers down my cheek. "Thank you." The words he spoke were barely audible, and his lips hardly moved, but he spoke them, and the depth of his gratitude went right down to his soul. Then he bent his head slightly and kissed me once more, slowly and deeply.

After several moments, his lips left my mouth, traveling slowly down the side of my face, where his lips lingered on my neck. Struggling to breathe, I held onto his shoulders and neck, finally warming up after the long time in the cold. His shoulders shook under my arms as I glanced around at the fine ceiling, with mahogany colored beams supporting it. Thomas sniffled, and suddenly I realized that he was crying.

My heart turned with love and pity for him; I felt hot tears soak into the fabric of my jacket. Nearly ready to cry myself, I drew my hands off his shoulders and cupped his face with them, drawing his head away from my shoulder. I planted a long kiss on his forehead, and smoothed his hair back, murmuring, "Maybe we should sit down."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

His thumb traced over my knuckles again, his other arm around my shoulder. On that hand, his thumb was turning the gold band on his middle finger. I was snuggled up against him as we faced the fireplace; once again we were recovering from a five minutes of full-fledged smooching. 

"Carrie," he said gently, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest. 

"Listening," I said, looking up at him, suddenly fearing that he would tell me that it was time.

"You said there's no more boats left?"

Relieved that he hadn't spoken the dreaded words, I said, "Yeah."

Thomas let out a long breath, once again the cogs turning in his mind. "Your best bet would be to swim for one of the boats, then." he murmured finally. "If you stay on the ship it'll suck you right down with it."

"Can a person make it that far?" I asked him dubiously. "I mean, last I heard, the water was thirty-one degrees."

He shifted slightly to see me better. "Under normal circumstances, the ideal is to just stay put and keep movement to a minimum, but striking out for a boat will at least keep you a little warm. And. . ." he looked up toward the mantle, where the two half-full brandy glasses were stationed. "Before you leave, I want you downing both of those brandies. It'll widen your blood vessels and counteract the water thinning them. " 

"Right." Suddenly it dawned on me just what exactly was ahead. In ten minutes, maybe I'd still be here. In the next twenty, certainly I'd be down in the freezing cold water, trying to swim for the nearest lifeboat, not even knowing if I'd make it that far. A shiver raced through me. Thomas and I were down to our last stretch. 

Thomas felt the shiver, and his sad, exhausted eyes met my own. "Carrie, I. . ." he said quietly. ". . .I've been doing a lot of thinking since I met you, and. . . well, I've come to a decision."

His arm slid out from around me; I watched him curiously, wondering what in the world this decision could be. For a moment he sat on the edge of the couch, then glanced over at me, a somewhat mischievous gleam in his eye. 

And then he slid off the couch and lowered himself onto one knee in front of me.

My breath came short and fast as I wondered if he was really doing what I thought he was. The question was answered as he pulled the gold band off of this finger. "I'd meant to save this for New York," he told me gently, twirling the ring between his thumb and index finger, watching it. His eyes slowly traveled back up to meet mine, his free hand gathering both of my hands. "But New York is out of the question now."

"Oh, Thomas," I choked, feeling ridiculous for not thinking of anything better to say. My eyes were blurring with tears and I was shaking all over again.

"And about that question. . ." he was actually able to smile, though his lower lip trembled. 

"All you need to do is ask," I whispered.

"Carolina. . . Monica. . . Stevenson. . ." he said each part of my name slowly, savoring the sound, and then held the ring up. ". . . would you marry me?"

A sob escaped my throat. "Yes," I gasped, grinning through the tears. "Yes, Thomas. I'll marry you."

His smile was so sad, yet so loving, so tender. Our foreheads pressed together, we both watched as he tried to slide the ring onto the fourth finger of my left hand, but my finger was smaller than his, so he pushed it onto my thumb. Both of it watched it rest there. "My life is yours," Thomas murmured, his right hand sliding up to hold the side of my face. "My life, and my heart, and all of my love. _You_ have it. . ." his eyes were unbelievably sincere. ". . . no one else."

I sniffled. "Somewhere there's a really wonderful reply to that," I managed, laying an arm around his neck. "But all I can think of now is that I feel the same way toward you."

He kissed me, deeply, arms twining around me; I slid to my knees along with him and allowed myself to be practically buried in his warm embrace. This kiss was unlike any of the others I'd shared with him-- this one was desperate, anxious, and so _final_-- we both knew it would be the last one between us. We pulled back after an eternity, our eyes never wandering from each other's. "God, I love you." I whispered, my heart feeling heavy.

"And I love you," he murmured, using his thumb to brush tears from my face. "More than you'll ever know."

"I sure can guess," I said back, the ring warm on my thumb.

"Then multiply your guess by a hundred, and you still wouldn't be close." he slowly pulled me to my feet, and toward the mantle, where he picked up one of the brandy glasses. "Drink up."

I took it in my hands, one of his arms resting lightly over my waist. I knocked back two large swallows and grimaced as the brandy tingled down the back of my throat. "Strong damn stuff," I said, putting the glass back on the mantle. It immediately slid off and crashed onto the floor; I jumped again. "Sorry," I mumbled, beet-red for some reason.

"You're fine." Thomas said gently, and held out the second glass. "Now the other one." I swallowed it quickly as I could, then looked back up at Thomas. "We'll give it a few minutes to settle," he murmured. "But then you should leave."

I nodded, dreading the approaching moment. Suddenly, from such a long way off, I heard the faint strings of the band. . . long, quivering notes. . . so deeply sorrowful. . . "Hartley." I whispered, and felt tears burning my eyes again.

"Pardon?" Thomas said.

"I found the band," I said, looking up at him. "On my way here. I asked them to play 'Nearer My God to Thee' if they had the chance."

"It's one of Wally's favorites," he said quietly, then pulled me closer to his side. "Didje know that?"

"No, I didn't." I whispered against his coat, closing my eyes, remembering the tiny smile Wally had offered me when I'd suggested the song. 

My eyes opened then. "Thomas," I said, thinking of something, and feeling horrible for asking. "Is there. . . is there something that I can. . . I can do for you, if-- _when_ I get to New York?" 

"Yes," he whispered, and shifted slightly, reaching into his coat pocket. From it came the sheet of paper I'd seen him putting there after Murdoch stopped by his cabin. "Carrie, these. . . d'you remember the plans I showed you earlier, of the new ship?"

"Of course."

"I still want it to be built, but. . . if you can, send them back to my uncle in Belfast."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"And. . ." he looked down at me. "Carrie, if it's possible. . . I want _you_ to supervise the construction of it."

I blinked, found my voice. "What?"

"I want you to be the master shipbuilder for it." he murmured. "I don't care how long it takes you to get in a position to do so. . . if it takes fifty years or five months, it doesn't matter. . . you or my uncle are the only two people I trust to build it."

"You'd trust me with a project like this?"

"I'd trust you with my life," he told me firmly, eyes boring into my own. "And I know you can do it. If something happens where you can't, that's fine too-- just send it to my uncle." In the silence that followed, he looked at the clock on the mantle. His eyes rested there for a long moment before he finally turned back to me. My stomach churned at the exhausted, somber look in his features. "It's time." he murmured.

I'd promised him that I wouldn't protest, so I bit back the words I longed to say, and instead tried to smile, and nod.

"Listen," he said, eyes staring intently into mine. "The best thing to do would be to climb to the other side of the railing and then push yourself off. Get far away from the ship as you can during the leap, but don't jump from a height that's greater than ten feet. And before you jump, get rid of your jacket; it'll just weight you down. I'd suggest throwing the shoes, too, but you'll need them later." 

I didn't ask, just let him speak. I trusted that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Don't even worry about finding a lifebelt. They're impossible to swim in. And whatever you do, if you have to stop for a moment, don't be stationary for long."

"I won't."

"Swim as quick as you can." his eyes glanced around the room. "Don't know how much longer she has left, and I don't want you being pulled right down with her."

I nodded. "Don't worry about me. I'm a good swimmer."

"I know you are." he murmured, stroking my cheek.

I took in a shaky breath. "Thomas, I don't even know how to _begin_ to thank you for every--"

"I know you're grateful." he said softly, eyes so tender. "That's all the thanks I need."

I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, knowing that if our lips touched, I'd never be able to leave. He returned the soft kiss, then pulled me into a tight, warm embrace. "Pleasure to've met you, Carrie." he whispered, lips brushing my ear.

His words sounded too much like Murdoch's. "Nice to have met you, too, Thomas." I said back quietly, and pulled out of his arms for the last time. 

We watched each other for a moment. My eyes searched his face, memorizing every detail. A final squeeze of his warm and gentle hands, then I stepped back, toward the heavy revolving door, our eyes still locked. Thomas followed me. "I'll see you off," he murmured as we passed through the door. He stopped as we reached the cafe, "Nearer My God to Thee" more pronounced than ever.

My feet seemed to be made of lead as I shifted them to turn away. "Love you." I whispered, meeting his painfully sad eyes.

"As I love you," he murmured in reply. 

I forced myself to tear my eyes from his, and to lift one foot, put it down in front of the other. My heart was heavy as I moved-- each step was another one away from Thomas Andrews, away from the man I loved so deeply. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my entire life, to leave him behind when my lips were still tingling from his kisses, my shoulder still damp with his tears. I could feel his eyes on me, watching as I made my way across the uneven floor, over fallen chairs and shattered china.

I reached the door of the cafe, and heard from behind me a quiet, choked, "Carrie?"

I turned back. He was still standing there, his left wrist on the door frame near his shoulder, his right hand on his waist, the flap of his jacket back. He looked absolutely dashing, as though I was staring at a portrait of an army general-- except the look on his face was still one of a lost and frightened child. "Thomas?"

He dipped his chin in the slightest of nods. Lips parting, he managed, "We-- we _will_ meet again someday."

A tiny smile formed on my face as I took in shaky breaths. I knew he was right. "I'll see you then."

He swallowed hard. "Good-bye. Good luck t'you."

I nodded back a little in thanks. "Luck to you too, Thomas."

Neither of us moved. Our eyes were still locked across the cafe, desperate and pained. It took every nerve in my body to force myself to turn away from him.

And I left him behind in the first class smoking room to wait for the inevitable.


	10. Chapter Ten

*NEW* AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about that rushed note before. If you didn't read it before I posted this new one, that's okay, you didn't miss anything. Anyway, I had more to say-- I was in a hurry because I had exactly two minutes to upload the chapter and get everything right before I had to be in bed with the light off at ten o'clock (parents. . . gotta love 'em.). By the way, this isn't really my favorite chapter. . . I don't think I did a good a job with it as some of the other ones. However, I could be wrong. Tell me! lol Anyway, as before, THANK YOU ALL SOOOOO MUCH for the reviews!!!! Glad you liked it. . . and sorry I made you cry. But at least I know I'm doing my job right. Serina, thanks for the suggestions, but no promises. Heh. ;) Anyway. . . okay that's the third time I've used that word so far. . . please review if you get the chance. Thanks again, everybody!

TEN

"Je-sus." I breathed quietly, gaping at the stern. In the time it had taken for me to get to and leave the first class smoking room, the rear end of the ship had risen almost entirely out of the water. Fighting back panic, I looked out over the railing, at the port side of the ship. I'd checked the other side already, and no boats seemed close enough to try for it. However, on this side, there was a boat only about three hundred yards away. It seemed pretty far, but was a hell of a lot closer than any other lifeboat had been. Plus. . . as I squinted, it became apparent that they weren't trying to row away from the ship. 

Taking in a deep breath, and as the band finished "Nearer My God to Thee", I locked my hands around the railing; within seconds my fingers felt almost numb. Stepping onto the first rung of the rail, I threw my other leg to the other side and balanced there. As I stripped off my warm jacket, I realized that the band hadn't begun another song, which meant that they were probably making a break for it. _Go for it, guys_. I thought. 

I tossed my jacket to the deck, and the bitter cold air washed over me. A convulsive shiver ran through my spine; I tried not to think of the effect that the water would have on me once I re-surfaced in the lifeboat. Not only would I be without a plain jacket, but I'd be soaking wet.

I looked around one final time, contemplating just giving up and running back to the first class smoking room to Thomas. But I knew that that reunion would be nowhere near as sweet as the one twenty minutes ago had been. He'd be even more disappointed-- in me, and at my cowardice, plus the fact that I wasn't able to get his plans delivered. 

My breath clouded in the cold air as I felt the deck rising so slowly under me, as I watched the mad scramble of people rushing toward the stern. It was horrible to have to watch this powerful masterpiece of architecture, luxury, and technology die so slowly and painfully. Especially when it was the pride and joy of the man I'd have married if the situation were any different.

Reminded of Thomas, I checked the large pocket in my dungarees to make sure that his plans were still safe and sound, buttoned into the pocket. As an afterthought, I slipped his ring off of my thumb and placed it in with the plans, tucking it into a fold of them just to be sure that it wouldn't slip out while I was swimming for the lifeboat. 

Finally, I drew in a deep breath and stared down into the black water, letting my other leg over the rail. Lights from portholes under the water cast eerie beams of light into the dark sea, and the waves were considerably calm. As I shifted on the railing to face the sea, I mused, _Wonder why the power's still on_? My stomach suddenly did a back flip as I realized that Chief Engineer Bell and several of the workers were probably still down in the engine room, keeping the power on as long as they could so that the passengers left behind could see. My hands trembled-- another knot of crewmembers that wouldn't make it. 

I turned my attention toward the sea again, and gulped, hating to leave now, trying to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. Staring into the water that would close over me in mere seconds, I knew that this was the point of no return, and it was now or never. "I love you, Thomas Andrews," I whispered, closing my eyes. "And Murdoch and Tommy. . . I'll see you two the same day I finally see Thomas. Jack and Fabrizio. . . I hope you can't hear me."

I tightened my grip on the railing, silently thanking the RMS _Titanic_ for the adventure, the romance, and the friendship. Then I bent my knees, preparing to--

"Carrie!" 

I froze, nearly stumbling, shocked at the sudden call for me. I looked up, twisting around almost painfully to see who was standing beside me. For a fleeting instant I thought it might be Thomas, but the voice was deeper, and more roughened. Behind me was a crewmember, uniformed and red-cheeked from the cold. "You're Carrie?" he said quickly.

"Yes," I said, wondering what was going on. "Can I help you?"

The crewmember pointed toward the bow. "Mr. Lightoller saw you, miss. He asked if I could ask for your help."

I looked in the direction that he was pointing. Far to my left, Second Officer Lightoller was hanging onto a line, on top of the overturned collapsible, shouting directions at the crewmen who were frantically trying to cut the lines of the collapsible. 

I swallowed. I didn't want to stay, but I still didn't want to leave. Quickly, I weighted my options. In leaving, I'd get to a boat faster, but I'd have done nothing to help anyone when I had the chance. Yet if I stayed, the ship might go out from under me before I'll even get a chance to swim to safety. Plus there was a greater risk of being killed. . . which, then again, would reunite Thomas and I.

_No_, damn it! _Quit thinking like that_!

I looked back at the crewman and took in a deep breath. "Give me a hand over?" I asked him.

"Of course." he helped me over the rail; my feet hit the deck and I forced them into my shoes again, quickly tying the laces. I then left my jacket where it was to give me more freedom of movement, and raced toward Collapsible B with the crewman. "D'you have a pocket knife?" he called to me over the din of shouting passengers and rushing waters.

"Actually, yeah." I replied, reaching into my pocket to find one of the two penknives that had been included in the stack of goods Jack and Fabrizio and I had won from the poker game the other day. Jesus, it seemed like centuries ago that we'd dashed from the pub to board the _Titanic_. Fabrizio has the other knife, I thought somewhere in the back of my mind. Hope he found a way to put it to use. 

There were people swarming like flies around Collapsible B, and water was already sliding up the deck; the crewman and I sloshed through it to get to the lines. It was up to my shins and absolutely freezing, and a shiver wracked my spine. Sixth Officer Moody was in the background, also shouting instructions. I found Lightoller again, and watched as he slid down one of the lines, splashing to a stop, before wading over. If he noticed the cold, he didn't show any sign of it.

"Cut any line you can reach!" he hollered over the noise, eyes struggling to keep the panic hidden. "Just cut the damn thing!"

"Shouldn't we right it?!" I yelled back. 

"There's no time!" Lightoller told me. "D'you have a--" I held up my penknife before he even finished. He nodded, clamping a strong hand around my shoulder for a moment. "Thank you," though rough, his voice was rich with gratitude. I nodded in reply, then glanced toward the davits.

Half the falls were hooked to the boat; it was apparent that righting the boat had been tried, but now that the seawater was swirling around our knees, there was no more time left at all. I pushed final thoughts of Thomas, Jack, Fabrizio, Tommy, and Murdoch from my mind, and launched myself onto the collapsible, reaching for a line. I sawed my knife through the first line; it took a good fifteen seconds. I could feel the boat bobbing underneath me in the waves. _Jesus_. I thought. _What the hell am I doing here_? _I'm supposed to be swimming for a lifeboat!_

But this was way better than swimming for a boat-- at least I was being useful.

I yelled out then, nearly getting knocked off the boat by a man trying to climb onto it. I gripped another part of the falls, again sawing my knife back and forth. I was shivering badly by now-- not only was I scared out of my wits, but it was so goddam freezing. I cannot even begin to describe to you how _cold_ I felt. My fingers were nearly numb; I don't know how I was holding on to the falls. My jacket was long gone, and my workpants were almost completely soaked through with the icy water. My Oxford blouse wasn't doing a lot of good at all. It was fairly damp from the sea spray, and water was dripping out of my hair. 

Two lines left. . . stop pushing, dammit. . . one line. . . almost there. . . my side of the boat bobbed down several inches. Lightoller, now treading water, came alongside the boat, trying to grab onto the rudder. I offered my numb hand to him; he reached up to take it, splashing water over my knees. 

Without warning, from perhaps twenty yards away, there was an ear-popping snapping sound, and then an enormous _KER-THWAP!!_

Lightoller and I both looked, him still halfway off of the boat. Neither of us could see anything save the remains of a splash; for a moment we glanced back at each other, completely confused, each hoping that the other would be able to identify what had ker-thwapped. But then the snap and the _KER-THWAP!!_ sounded again, and this time we were both able to look quick enough.

It was a cable.

For a moment I had no idea where it came from as it snapped into the water with the force of a thousand whips, but then I realized-- _the cables holding the forward funnel up were snapping_. Which would mean that the taut cables on the other side would be pulling at the funnel, which had nothing to keep it up on the other side. . . which would mean that the funnel had to fall.

Lightoller and I gaped open-mouthed as it did just that, bending and ripping off of its anchorage from the base. It fell slowly, heavily, metal tearing away and creating a grinding, screeching cacophony of noise. My heart leaped into my throat; I nearly cried out, frozen with terror-- it looked for a moment that the funnel was going to fall directly onto us. But it hit the water only about thirty yards away, smashing onto a whole slew of swimming passengers. Waves created by the funnel gushed out in all directions.

"Oh,_ shi--_" Lightoller was cut off mid profanity as the enormous wave surged toward us, picking up the boat and throwing it a slow fifty yards further. I tightened my grip on Lightoller's right hand as his left struggled to grasp part of the rudder to keep him from getting washed off. Water flew everywhere and crashed onto us; it was literally pouring off of me in streams when the wave subsided. It was cold enough to clear my head and send some extra adrenaline shots to my nerves; I helped to pull Lightoller onto the underside of the boat.

We were now over the open ocean, instead of the ship (which was only a good twenty feet away), and men were struggling here and there to climb onto the boat. Lightoller, spitting out a mouthful of seawater and half choking, tried to thank me; I whacked him on the back (his cough calmed) and gave him a "you're welcome". It was then that someone else climbed on, knocking into me in the process. "Shit!" I hollered as I lost my balance. My knees slid painfully over the ridges in the boat, and before I could stop myself, I tumbled into the water. 

The water wasn't that big of a shock, considering I'd just been saturated with it moments before, but I still nearly gasped at how icy it was. I launched myself to the surface and took in a deep gulp of air, which drove sharply into my lungs. Jesus! It seemed ten times as cold as it had been when it covered my ankles in the boiler room earlier. "Carrie!" Lightoller was hanging onto the rudder, holding out his hand toward me. "Grab a'hold!"

For a moment I reached out toward his hand, then stopped. The shouting and weeping was buzzing in my ears. "I think I'll find another boat," I called up to him, treading water. My arms felt frozen. 

"Are you crazy!? There isn't another one for--" he froze and jerked his hand back, clinging to the rudder as a wave made the boat buck slightly.

"I'd better go," I told him. "More room for the men. I can make it to another boat."

His eyes were doubtful. I chose not to wait; I began to strike out in the direction of the boat I'd seen earlier. "See you. And thanks, Mr. Lightoller."

"That's Charles to you!" he called back, even though his eyes showed nothing but a heavy sadness. "Good-bye-- good luck."

When I'd put some distance between myself and the collapsible, I turned around to look back at the ship. The entire stern was now completely out of the water, and rising steadily but slowly. My God, was it frightening. I absolutely cannot put into words how god-damned horrifying it was to watch. I actually stopped, treading water, just gaping at the massive ass of boat pointing at the sky. My breath caught in my chest as I just stared at it. Suddenly I realized that it would probably look even more eerie under the water, and before I could stop myself, I dropped beneath the waves.

My eyes immediately hurt from the saltwater, and the fact that the water was just so damn cold, but when I understood what I was seeing, I couldn't close them.

The _Titanic_, already nearly halfway under water, still had all of its lights on, which continued to glow even under the surface, dimly lighting the enormous submerged bow. I nearly gasped at how frightening the sight was, to see the goddam front of the ship all ready to sink into the black abyss below and around it. I mean, think about it-- the ship just moments away from disappearing forever into the black depths of an entirely unknown world, yet still lit, with nothing supporting the ship underneath. When it finally went under, it would go, and it would go _fast_. 

I suddenly remembered that breathing was a necessity of living. Rising to the surface, I gasped in air, which again bit at my lungs. Then, because I could already feel my limbs threatening to go numb, I immediately struck out in the direction of the lifeboat.

The cold was all I could think about, though. The biting, almost painfully cold water, and my wet head in the freezing air. _Great._ I thought sarcastically. _Should have stayed with Lightoller. Even if I do make it to the boat, I'm going to die of hypothermia. _

Oh, well. said another part of my mind. _At least I'll be back with Thomas._

I forced myself to think of something other than the cold and Thomas. Something that didn't have to do with the ship behind me, or Murdoch, or Jack or the band or a hundred other things. _Heat._ I thought longingly. _Think of a nice, sunny day on the beach. . . maybe in Maine. . . or Florida. . . or the Hawaiian Islands. . ._

Left arm, right arm, keep kicking, keep breathing-- but not too deeply. Don't look back at the ship, don't listen to the shouting and screaming and sobbing, just focus on that lifeboat and the thought of a nice afternoon in the sun. 

Once or twice I thought of how I wasn't swimming in a pool, this was the middle of the _Atlantic Ocean_, and it was two miles down to the ocean floor. The same ocean floor on which the ship of dreams would dock for the last time. 

Left arm, right arm. Keep kicking. Don't slow down and don't speed up. Turn your head to the side, spit out the water, check to make sure you're still heading for the boat. Stay calm; panic when you have time for it. Don't pay attention to the cold.

One arm over the other, turn your head to the side, breathe, keep kicking, don't go too far under. Check to see you're still heading for that boat. Breathe. Calm down. Ignore the cold. Ignore the cold. Ignore the goddam bloody cold. 

__

Without warning, a voice cut across the black water and over the noise from the ship: "_Passenger ahoy!_"

I nearly slowed down, but I sure looked up-- there, a little more than forty feet ahead, was the lifeboat. I hadn't even realized how close I was to my target, and I swam harder, spitting out more saltwater. The distance closed slowly; I could vaguely make out people staring over the side of the boat at me. I didn't care anymore; I reached the side of the boat, shivering uncontrollably. "G-g-got r-room for one m-m-more?" I stuttered, treading water, my limbs feeling ready to freeze right where they were.

"Certainly," I didn't see who spoke, but suddenly two strong hands were under my forearms, and I was pulled from the water, the words "BOAT 14" legible on the side as I passed it. I was halfway over the eight inches of gunwale when suddenly there came an ear-splitting grinding noise from the direction of the sinking ship. I twisted in the men's grip to see; even they froze, and I went stock-still in my efforts to help them, my knees still hooked over the side of the boat. Everyone in the small craft was gaping wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the _Titanic_ and its second funnel, which was slowly collapsing, just as the forward funnel had done. 

Once again, it was like being trapped in an horrific nightmare, watching the greatest ship in the world falling to pieces like this. Several of the women in our boat cried out as the funnel struck the water, creating an absolutely enormous wave that hurried from the ship toward the open sea. Far in the distance, I spotted the overturned collapsible being bucked around again. I prayed Lightoller was still on it.

"Christ Jesus!" said one of the crewmen, and finished pulling me over.

I dropped into the boat, landing on one of the sitting boards. Trying to avoid looking at the steadily dying ship, I stared up into the faces of my rescuers. The one of them was just an ordinary crewman, but the second one I recognized as being one of the officers who was on the bridge earlier. I watched him, teeth chattering, as I tried to remember his name. He was _young_-- or he looked it, anyway. Trim brown-black hair was tucked under his cap, and his high cheekbones were pink with the cold.

The officer was just getting a good look at me now as he threw a heavy woolen blanket over my shoulders. I saw the slightest flash of recognition seep into his beady eyes. "I know who you are," he said, one of his knees on the bench next to me, one hand on the tiller. "You're the girl who was with Thomas Andrews earlier-- up on the bridge, in the chartroom."

"Y-y-yeah." I said, doing my best to smile. Now that I was out of the water, exhaustion was setting in. "I know y-y-you t-t-too-- your n-name's n-not com-com-coming to me, th-though."

"Harold Lowe." he extended his hand in greeting. "Fifth officer."

"That's r-r-right." I remembered now, and was relieved to see someone I knew. "M-my name's C-C-Carrie Stev-venson." We shook hands, and it was unbelievably odd to be acting so friendly and formal when the _Titanic_ was sinking in the background. I glanced at the crewman who'd helped me over. "Th-th-thanks." I told him, shaking his hand as well.

"Y'welcome." he said, and introduced himself. "Ed Buley." 

I glanced over and noticed suddenly-- as did Lowe-- that every person in the boat was staring at us-- some in shock, some in disgust. What the hell? Lowe swallowed, and slowly sat back down on his seat near the tiller. 

"What th-the h-h-hell w-w-were they st-st-staring at?" I asked Lowe quietly.

"I think they're afraid of me." he murmured. "They were panicking earlier, and I fired my gun into the air to calm them down." he looked back toward the ship, eyes pained and plainly fearful. "I know I frightened some of them-- but what was I supposed to do?"

"You d-did r-r-right." I said, stuffing the blanket over my fists and breathing on it to warm my hands. _At least this boat's almost full to capacity. . . looks like there's maybe fifty people aboard._ My bones felt like stretched rubber bands, and my limbs buzzed with exhaustion. I turned my attention back toward the _Titanic_. Some people were hanging off of the falls, swinging back and forth, and other people just gave up and jumped, falling fifty, a hundred, two hundred feet to the sea below. The _Titanic_ was now sticking out of the water at a forty-five degree angle. "J-J-Jesus." I said, staring, horrified. "What the h-h-ell's k-k-keeping her f-f-from split-t-ting?"

His breath clouded slowly in and out in the frigid air. "I. . . I don't know. . . sooner or later she'll _have_ to split. . . or something. . . the frame can't support all that weight."

I gulped, the screaming and commotion from the passengers still on board audible even at this distance. And even a lot of the women in our boat were weeping, or sniffling, or whimpering. _Wonder if the smoking room is flooded?_ I thought to myself, and another convulsive shiver seized me. _Please, God, if Thomas has to die. . . let it be quick and painless. _Reminded of Thomas, I looked down to my button-up pocket in the leg of my jeans, and unbuttoned the icy buttons. My fingers, almost frozen stiff, had one hell of a job taking his ring out, but I found it, and dried it off on the blanket before sliding it over my thumb. I then rubbed my hands quickly together, trying to warm them up, my eyes still on the dying ship.

Lowe spoke; he looked nearly ready to throw up. "D'you think. . . after she. . ." he glanced at me and then away again. ". . . goes under. . . we should go back and search for survivors?"

I nodded. "Y-y-yeah. Pick up as man-n-ny as w-w-we c-can."

He gave a wry glance in the direction of the rest of the passengers in the boat. "They'd certainly mind."

"S-sure, b-b-but they're n-not--"

Without warning, every light on board the RMS _Titanic _flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.

Darkness spread over the sea, over the ship-- the only light came from the stars and the Milky Way, high overhead, throwing everything into a kind of blue-ish glow. I let out a kind of backwards gasp-- my breath seemed to fly from my lungs, and I froze in my spot. It was terrifying-- the full realization hit that once the ship went under, we were just several hundred passengers stranded in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. Several of the women in our boat again cried out; one woman erupted into hysterical sobbing screams. I shivered again, wishing she'd stop. My nerves were jumpy, as though I'd just swallowed a few cups of coffee, and the screaming was doing nothing to help. 

Suddenly Lowe, of all people, sucked in the tiniest gasp. "Look," he said breathlessly.

"Wh-what?" I tried to look in the direction he was pointing, but saw nothing. 

"There." he pointed toward the ship; I looked almost right down his arm, and then saw what he was talking about.

My heart leaped into my throat as I watched the dark, iron side of the ship-- the metal was pooching out, as though the entire thing was being bent. A crack suddenly raced up the side of the ship; the railing split and began to pull itself apart.

"Oh, mm-my G-God. . ." I managed, shivering uncontrollably now as I watched. The tearing sheet metal, the collapsing pillars and beams, the floors and walls being ripped apart-- all of it tore at my and everyone's ears, and made the sight absolutely terrifying to watch. I then saw what had to happen-- for physics to play its part, the stern section of the ship would have to fall back onto the water.

And that's exactly what it did.

The screams from the great liner rushed forth across the sea, like a scared-shitless choir, as the thirty-thousand ton rear end fell in a slow, almost graceful arc. Water turned from black to white as it sprayed forth under the force of the stern, which crushed everyone in the sea directly underneath it. The remaining smokestacks came crashing down, rolling off the ship as the huge, jagged gap in the center flooded. However, the stern hadn't been entirely detached from the bow.

Lowe was shaking badly by this time, eyes wide and glassy as his breath came short. "She'll be pulled vertical." he said, and even his voice was unsteady. 

I had no idea what to say to that, but suddenly realized that it was true-- the stern began to rise again, this time much faster. It was hardly ten seconds before, without warning, it came to an abrupt and frozen halt at a ninety-degree angle to the water.

"See there!" a hysterical woman cried. "Told y'it couldn't sink!"

The sight was horrifying. Blood-chillingly, mind-numbingly, piss-yourself-sick horrifying. The trembling I felt now was quadruple what my trembling had been when leaving Thomas behind, and it wasn't due to the cold at all. Suddenly I was thankful that if he couldn't see what was happening to his masterpiece, and if he could, he was somewhere that he could be injured by it.

The stern section continued to stand straight up, pointing at the stars, not moving at all. Passengers, just specks from this distance, either clung to the rail and stayed put, or clung to the railing and lost their grip, tumbling down, bouncing off parts of the ship before splashing sickeningly into the water.

I wanted to say something. My God, anything that would break the chilling silence in the boat. However, nothing was coming to mind, at least nothing appropriate. I actually don't think I would have spoken if I _could_ have thought of something appropriate. 

But then I found the words.

I whispered them, and they barely made a sound. Yet I still spoke them. "Hail Mary," I murmured, my entire body shaking so much that it made my voice sound clear. "Full of grace. . . the Lord is with thee. . ."

Lowe looked over at me. His eyes were bright with held-back tears, but his hand slid into mine, holding it so tightly that my bones seemed to creak. "Blessed art thou amongst women," he joined in with me, and we spoke the words together, eyes locked on the black steamer. "and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. . ."

Ed Buley, two seats away, heard us. ". . . Holy Mary," he joined in, his voice stronger than both of ours, but there were three of us now. ". . . Mother of God. . . pray for us sinners. . ."

"Now, and at the hour of our death." another man beside me picked it up.

"Our Father," I said, my voice growing stronger, and Lowe immediately followed, along with Buley and the other guy. Within moments, half of our lifeboat was praying the Our Father. ". . . hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. . ."

At first, so slowly I thought I'd imagined it, the stern began to slip lower, like an elevator descending in a shaft. Then I saw that I wasn't imagining it at all; the entire rear end was plunging into the sea, slowly but surely. Buley's voice grew stronger; it seemed like everyone else joined in. ". . .on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. . ."

_This is it,_ I thought, even as I prayed with the rest of the group. _Remember what you saw. It'll be with you for the rest of your life. This is going to be an event that you'll tell your kids about, and your grandkids. . . _Then I remembered that Thomas was the only person who I would ever consider having children with, and that he was gone. 

This had to be the most profound moment of my entire life, as I watched the ship disappearing into the water, our boat reverberating with the Our Father. Suddenly, from the bowels of the ship, three massive explosions were heard, one right after the other. It sounded as though a bomb had gone off; it might as well have. "Boilers." Lowe said faintly over the noise of the screams and prayers and rushing water.

Twenty feet till it went under, the Jolly Roger still flying on the flagpole. . . ten feet, the water around the boat boiling like a pot on the stove. . .

And then the crest of the bow disappeared, and water continued to churn in its wake.

I heard the tiniest of clicks next to me; I glanced over at Lowe. He was cradling an open pocket watch in his palm. "Two-twenty." he murmured, the prayers still strong in the background.

The _RMS_ Titanic had finally sunk.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Author's Note: I forgot to mention in the last A/N: Sorry if anyone was offended by the prayers. Man, this is terrible to be so politically correct. Oh yeah, and to sdf: GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. To anyone who was offended by those statements that sdf was so kind to point out, I offer you my most humble apologies, but the statements were never meant to mean what sdf considered them to mean. I never even thought of them in that context until it was brought to my attention. Sick minds, my friends, are contagious. Anyway. . . Most of the stuff in this chapter is historically correct. Most, I said. Not all. If you care, email me, and I'll be happy to tell you what's true and what ain't. And I decided to leave out the fact that Lowe pitches a sail in his boat-- I don't have the patience to write all that. Sorry. Final note-- ***THIS IS NOT THE END. I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT THE END.*** Anyway, enjoy. Reviews (non-sick) are MORE than welcome!!!! :D

ELEVEN

Lowe's knuckles were pale on the tiller; I watched him as he instructed four boats that had pulled alongside us to tether up. "Bring your oars in over there," he called in the direction of Boat 12. "And tie these two boats together as well. . . make sure that's tied up nice and tight." Lowe's face still held a frightened, almost boyish look to it-- but there was something else behind the fear as he turned back toward the scene of the sinking. I could see resolve in his eyes. He obviously wanted to go back, and he wanted to go back _now_.

The passengers in Boat 14, however, seemed to have no intention whatsoever of returning to the scene. Many of them were weeping quietly, or whimpering to themselves. For a moment I listened to the commotion of shouts and pleads from the area where the ship had gone down. Looking in that direction, I could see the thousand-plus passengers and crew that had been dumped into the sea, all struggling to find help. They were screaming, begging for mercy, for one boat to come back. Then, without warning, a shrill whistle sliced across the waves. It sounded once. . . twice. . . three times-- all in long breaths. The whistle blows paused for a long moment, then began again. 

I felt sick to my stomach when I remembered that the only person I'd seen with a whistle on that evening was Chief Officer Wilde. I hadn't known him very well, but I'd been near him during some of the biggest events of the night-- like when Murdoch had killed himself, and in the chartroom. 

"We've got to go back." I said to Lowe, still shaking, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "This is madness. We can't wait any longer."

His hand that held the electric torch was trembling, but I knew it wasn't from fear-- Lowe was buzzing with nervous energy, coupled with the cold air. He again turned back to the scene, then to me, and nodded shortly, his eyes hardening with determination. "Right, listen to me, men!" he shouted, and everyone in all five lifeboats turned toward him. "We have to go back! I want to transfer all the women from this boat into that boat _right now_, as quick as y'can, please!" Immediately a woman stood up, and a crewman from Boat 4 next to us reached out a hand to help her over. She was followed by several more women. "Let's get some space over there, move forward and aft!"

I glanced up at Lowe. "I'll stay here and row."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, though not unkindly. "You've got to get to another one of these boats. We've got enough crewmen."

"If you think I'm going to just sit out in those boats not doing anything. . ."

He swallowed. "It's not going to be pretty. I'd rather you not have so see all of--"

"Lowe," I said earnestly, unable to keep the tone of my voice from rising slightly. "I'm going to goddam freeze to death if I switch boats. I'll help your men row, and when we get to the scene, I can help pick up survivors."

His concerned eyes were pleading with me to reconsider. "Miss Stevenson, _please_. . . I cannot allow you."

If I heard one more person call me "Miss Stevenson". . . I took in a deep breath to keep myself from snapping at him. "First off, my name is Carrie. Or just plain Stevenson. I'm so damn _sick _of everybody--" I stopped myself. No time. "Alright, second, I'm not stupid-- I know how to work a set of oars. And I'm _serious_-- I'm going to get frostbite or hypothermia or something equally pleasant unless I start doing something with my muscles. Just _sitting_ here like an ice cube when I can work is too goddam selfish for my taste."

Lowe looked at Ed Buley, who was looking right back at him. "C'mon, Harry." Buley said. _Nice to have a fan_, I thought sarcastically.

Lowe looked back at me, then dropped his eyes, as though he were embarrassed. "Yes. Of course you can stay. I-- sorry."

I let out a relieved breath. "Thanks, Lowe." I did my best to smile, suddenly feeling kind of embarrassed for being so rude to him. "I owe you one."

It took a good twenty minutes to get our boat cleared, and then some volunteers to help row the boats back. By this time, the pleading from the accident site had quieted quite a bit. While awful, at least we knew that we wouldn't be completely swamped by survivors when we got there. I didn't even hear the whistle anymore. Lowe directed me to my own oar, near him and the tiller. "All together, men!" he called finally, then glanced down at me. "And lady."

"Thanks," I said, wrapping my fingers around the icy oar, shedding the woolen blanket. The air bit through my still-damp clothes, chilling me, but at that moment, Lowe picked up a steady, slow chant of "Pull!. . . Pull!. . ." And we moved our oars accordingly.

By the time we'd put some distance between us and the other boats, I was growing a little warmer-- but just a little. Halfway there, my arms were screaming from the effort of propelling the boat. I was sure that usually I'd have been just fine-- but usually, I didn't swim three hundred yards through 30-degree water in the middle of the North Atlantic. The exhaustion was slowly beginning to kick in.

My muscles were burning as I moved my oar. I was trembling from the sheer cold of the air and my damp clothes. My hair had started to dry, but not much-- it had fallen out of its tying cord and was hanging limp against my shoulders. My fingers were numb on the oar (I couldn't even feel Thomas' ring), and I was sure that my toes had turned into little ice cubes. 

The other point was that I felt tired. Utterly and completely dead tired. Each stroke of the oar felt like trying to sprint through molasses in wintertime. My eyelids felt heavy as paving slabs; I would have been content to curl right up on that hard wooden bench and fall asleep. However, I knew that if I didn't keep moving, I'd be in real trouble. 

Lowe seemed to read my thoughts. "You can pause if you want," he said quietly, so that the other men wouldn't hear. I was grateful for his suggestion, and that he knew I would have been mortified for the other men to think that I couldn't handle this.

"Thanks," I murmured back. "But no thanks." I swallowed. "Oh, and-- sorry I kind of snapped at you earlier."

Lowe nodded very slightly, but he was relieved that I'd apologized. "Understood." 

The blackness stretched out ahead of us, the horizon tinged blue. Lowe turned his electric torch on the sea again; there was no sound save for the quiet splish of water against the oars, and the gentle creaking of the lifeboat. Under the flashlight beam, a corpse came into view, bobbing slightly on the waves. It was a dark-haired man, a tuxedo collar visible under his life jacket. A frozen, wide-eyed stare was emblazoned forever on his face, and his arms floated spread-eagled. I heard Lowe let out a shaky breath, and watched the beam of light travel further. Suddenly we were staring into an entire field thick with dead, floating, lifebelted passengers. 

"Jesus Christ in holy heaven." a crewman on the other side of the boat murmured. 

"All ahead, sir." Scarrott urged.

"Do you see any moving?" Lowe called softly. 

"No, sir." Scarrott mumbled. "None moving, sir."

"_Check them_." Lowe insisted, and glanced at one of the crewmen. "Bring that oar up here." 

Ed Buley clamped a hand to his mouth as the oar was drawn into the boat; he let go of his own oar, leaned over the side of the lifeboat, and vomited into the sea. I didn't blame him one bit; I, too, felt sick to my stomach as I stared at the dead, frosted faces of passengers.

"Check them," Lowe murmured, his voice rough but quiet. "Make sure."

Buley, eyes red-rimmed, said thickly, "These are dead, sir."

"They'll give way," Lowe told him softy. "Ahead easy." Two crewmembers leaned over either side of the boat to move the bodies out of the way. "Careful with your oars," Lowe said, his voice the slightest bit unsteady. "Don't hit them." He then raised his voice to a holler, and it shot across the void. "Is there anyone alive out there!?" It seemed unbelievably loud as compared to the quietness in the boat. "Can anyone hear me!?"

Off to the right, there was a woman floating in a lifejacket with a baby clutched in her stiff arms. Neither moved or drew breath.

"We waited too long," Lowe croaked. His lower lip trembled, and his eyes were glassy as he looked over the woman and child, and the other bodies. He glanced sharply back at the crewmen and saw that several of them watched him. "Well keep checkin' them!" he snapped, blinking to clear his tears, embarrassed. "Keep lookin'!"

No one replied. There was no movement in the field of passengers at all.

The cold pressed in on all sides; somehow it seemed much more chilling here than it did on the open ocean. Currently, only the two front crewmen were rowing, to keep the boat moving slowly. Lowe continued his occasional "Is anyone alive out there!?" shouting, but still he received no reply.

I was trembling as I gripped the oar, white-knuckled, trying not to stare too deeply into the faces of the deceased. The silence was so unbelievably eerie; it was frightening to see so many people and not have a single sound emitted from them. The frigidity of the air was the last thing on my mind.

Lowe continued to shine the flashlight over the green-tinged ocean; he was taking in deep, slow breaths to keep himself calm. "Hello," he called, stretching the word out. The end of the field of passengers was ending in another thirty yards; we'd have to change direction and go through another part of it. 

"There's got to be somebody." I whispered, almost to myself more than anything. "One person." It was utterly impossible that so many people had been killed. 

Without warning, a whistle blast sliced across the air in long, shaky beats. We all jumped a mile; Lowe whipped around toward the noise. "_Turn her bound!_" he hollered, voice rough from shouting.

The whistle continued blowing; an immense hope surfaced within me as we got the boat turned around. It had to be Wilde. It _had_ to be. Please, _God_, let it be Wilde. I helped row toward the oncoming blasts, careful where I set my oars. Lowe was searching with his electric torch, trying to find the owner of the whistle; he found it and called, "A little to port!" The whistle shrieks grew louder as we neared; I turned to see who it was as Lowe shined the flashlight down on the survivor.

I didn't recognize the person with the whistle in their mouth at first-- all I noticed was that the woman blowing it was hanging onto a floating deck chair. . . and on the other side of the deck chair, a dead Chief Officer Wilde was still clinging to the woodwork. His head was frozen at an angle, and frost covered his hair and closed eyelashes. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his hat, and his thick brown hair was spilled across his forehead.

All the strength seemed to drain out of Lowe at that moment. "Oh, God!" he said hoarsely, recognizing the fallen officer; he nearly lost his balance as he sat down hard on the bench next to me, shivering.

I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him as the boat drew alongside the deck chair and the woman, who was still blowing hte whistle. Only after Buley and another crewman-- Joe Scarrott-- hauled her into the boat did she stop whistling, and then I recognized her. "Rose." I breathed.

She slowly turned to look at me. Her red hair was in soaking strings, and her eyes had deep, dark circles cut under them. She was clearly exhausted, and freezing cold, from the way she was shivering and having trouble breathing. "C-Car-rie." she said, voice hardly audible. 

I swallowed. "Jack. . ."

She shook her head in tiny, trembly jerks, not even aware of Scarrott removing her heavy, saturated coat and lifejacket to trade for a heavy woolen blanket. Then she collapsed against the floor of the boat and closed her eyes.

That shake of the head and the dead look in her eyes told me exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear. Jack, too, was gone. 

Lowe and I both were shaking uncontrollably, but one look at him and I knew I had to keep strong. We both did. _Goddam it, cry later_. I thought angrily, and energy pounded through my veins anew. 

Lowe took in a final shaky breath, and then his eyes flickered upward again toward the crewmen, who were waiting for orders. "Let's keep looking." he said slowly, and his voice was hollow and lifeless. 

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Lowe once again dropped onto the bench seat beside me and grabbed another huge blanket. He threw it over both of our shoulders and we huddled together against the cold. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be thrilled about sitting so damn close to Lowe when we barely knew each other, but we were both freezing to death and didn't have any other options. My hair was nearly dry by now; Lowe's pocket watch read 3:27 am. More than an hour since the ship had gone under, and now we had nothing else to do but wait. Since Rose, we'd picked up three other people. We'd given up on everyone else-- no way it was humanely possible to live this long in below-freezing water.

Lowe and I were both shivering from the cold, but it was somewhat comforting to be leaning on each other's shoulders, sharing our fears and warmth. I mumbled to Lowe, "If I doze off, pinch me or yell in my ear or something."

"I should just let you sleep." he said, pulling his hat lower on his head.

"I mean it," I told him, exhausted. 

"I know you do," he said back, glancing at me, eyes showing that he did know. "Same with me."

"You got it." I assured him tiredly, struggling to keep my eyes open. I watched the blue-tinged horizon line, knowing that the sunrise would be visible soon. I let out a long breath, finally feeling like I was warming up a little bit. I let my eyes drop closed-- just for a moment. Any longer and I'd fall right asleep. But a couple of seconds wouldn't hurt anything. . .

"Carrie."

"Huh." I blinked. Damn. I was only supposed to shut my eyes for a minute. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Thanks."

"It's fine." Lowe shifted, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

"Have the time?" I asked him, leaning my elbows on my knees.

"Five till four." he murmured with a glance at his watch.

"Shit," I mumbled. "I was out that long?"

"I think I drifted off as well." he said, and yawned widely, thoroughly tired and depressed. 

I turned back to the horizon line, which seemed to be of a faintly lighter blue now. Nearly daybreak. I blinked, my eyelids still feeling as though lead weights were attached to them. 

It was then that I noticed the light on the horizon.

The lead weights disappeared; my entire body went rigid as I squinted into the distance. The light was so tiny that I thought I was imagining it, but it was still there-- and there was only one thing it could be.

"Lowe!" I breathed, nudging him in the ribs, suddenly shaking all over again. 

"I thought I was hallucinating," he said, and threw off the blanket. "Look there, men!" he pointed in the direction of the tiny flicker of light. 

"Christ," Buley said after a moment of squinting. "It's a ship!"

For a moment there was silence as every eye in Boat 14 locked onto the pinprick of hope in the distance. Suddenly, another spot of light flew into the air over the ship, and burst.

The ship was sending up rockets-- letting us know that it was on its way.

"She's comin' for us!" Scarrott yelped gleefully, and the rest of the boat picked up the cheer.

That bit of intelligence was the most comforting I'd heard in my entire life. The relief that I felt then can't even be put into words; I sagged against the oar, bleary-eyed, as the other men whooped and whistled. Lowe nearly attacked me in a cheerful embrace; I returned it best I could, smiling for the first time in hours. 

"Has to be the _Carpathia_." he said, now looking around in the bottom of the boat. He found one of the boxes used to keep supplies and tore it open; his fist emerged with a handful of rockets. "I heard from Phillips that she was on the way a little past midnight."

"Can you set those off here?" I asked warily as Lowe began to arrange the mechanism for firing the rockets. 

"That's what they're built for," he said, and glanced around. "Anyone have a lighter? The matches are damp."

"I've got one." Scarrott tossed his to Lowe, who flipped open the lid before glancing back at the lights on the horizon. 

"I really think we're saved," he announced, a slight smile on his face as he lit the first rocket. It went off with a metallic _woosh_, and popped high above our heads, letting off a shower of brilliant sparks. Lowe looked back toward the steamer. "Pick up an oar, everyone. Let's get moving!"

I stepped over the bench toward my oar, and began rowing with the rest of the men. _Four knots?_ I guessed as Lowe took over the tiller. _Five, maybe?_ _At least we're getting there. _The waves were slightly choppy now, and the eastern sky was graying, a soft breeze picking up.

"Thank God," Buley was saying. "Praise Jesus."

"Amen," Scarrott said, smiling in his seat to the right of me. 

In ten minutes, we picked up Collapsible D, which had gotten detached from the little fleet that Lowe had pulled together earlier. Lowe threw a rope over and we took them in tow; a moment after that he let up another rocket. 

Half an hour and two rockets later, on the way to the ship, we spotted Collapsible A, which was nearly flooded and hardly moving. "We'll have to take them on board," Lowe said, eyes boring into the little vessel. "There's hardly a score of them. We've got plenty of room."

We certainly did. It took twenty minutes to transfer the passengers into our boat, and we left three bodies behind in Collapsible A. "I'm here for the living," Lowe murmured, clearly not liking the idea of leaving the three dead men. "Not the deceased."

The rest passed in a blur. The blackness of night slowly faded into a deep blue, which in turn paled to dull gray. We could see the steamer now clearly, other boats heading toward her. The sun streaked the clouds with orange and pink and gold, and bluish icebergs stood out on the dark sea. The cold was slowly ebbing away from the air, but a wind was picking up.

It was seven o'clock when we reached the _Carpathia_. A rope ladder was thrown down to us, and passengers immediately started to climb, kept in order by Buley and Scarrott.

While the passengers slowly climbed, I helped Lowe put away the unused rockets and lime-green flares, tucking them securely back into the boxes. Together we folded up several of the woolen blankets. Lowe didn't even protest my staying behind to help him; instead we finished packing the supplies away in silence and I started up the ladder, Lowe two steps behind me.

At this point my entire body was one throbbing mess of exhaustion, coldness, and aching muscles from the rowing, but I knew I couldn't rest yet. I turned to give Lowe a final hand up; he tried to smile his gratitude. 

"Are you Mr. Lowe, sir?" a uniformed man stepped up to us immediately, his mustache thick and trim. The uniform didn't exactly match Lowe's; I figured it was an officer from the _Carpathia_.

"Yes, sir, I am." Lowe said, eyes dull with tiredness.

"They'd like you to report to the bridge, Mr. Lowe." the man said sharply, but not cruelly. "You should find Third Officer Pitman and Fourth Officer Boxhall of the _Titanic _waiting there_._"

Lowe's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you," he said, nodding a little. "Thanks. I--" he glanced at me, then back at the officer. "Sir, I'd appreciate it if you could take my good friend Carrie to someplace where she can rest-- preferably someplace comfortable."

The officer nodded slightly. "Certainly, Mr. Lowe."  


Lowe glanced at me. "I'll come check on you later," he promised, and gave one final tiny smile of gratitude before disappearing in the crowd, heading for the bridge.

The officer also tried a smile. "Miss, you'd best come with me."

I didn't really feel like leaving yet, though. "Would you mind if I stayed?" I asked him, a harsh wind picking up, whipping through my clothes. An involuntary shiver raced through me. 

"I suppose not," he said, glancing past me at another boat approaching. "Just ask a steward if you require assistance."

"Thanks," I told him, and moved near the rail. I immediately found Ed Buley. "I've been given instructions to direct ill passengers to the infirmary." he told me. "Got it in you to give me a hand?"  


"Yeah, sure." I said, and he gave me the directions, telling me to instruct passengers on where to go.

The boat finished unloading, and the next one came in. An old woman. . . two middle-aged women. . . a young man. . . a girl in her late teens. . . for a moment I studied the girl as she stepped back to wait for whomever was behind her. She looked incredibly familiar, but I couldn't place it. Where had I seen her. . .

But then the woman behind her finished climbing the ladder, and I recognized the two of them-- it was the wife and daughter of Tim Breckenridge, whom I'd spoken to in the corridor when Thomas and I were rounding up passengers. His was the family that couldn't get their lifebelts right. I leaned over the railing, trying to see if Tim himself had made it. 

Relieved, I watched him climbing the ladder, slowly and tiredly, but at least he was alive. He got to the top of the ladder and embraced his wife with one arm, his daughter with the other. I gave them a moment, and then couldn't help but to step over. "Glad to see you three made it," I said.

Tim turned toward me, and his eyes flooded with surprise. "Miss Stevenson!" he said, and smiled broadly. "You made it."

"So did you," I said, and couldn't help but to smile back. "Check both sides?"  


"We did indeed." Tim said. "Got in without a single protest from the officer."

I blinked. "Did you know which officer it was?"

"Murdoch, I believe." Tim said, holding his wife and daughter to him. "Scotsman. About five feet ten."

"That's him," I said quietly, suddenly depressed all over again.

Tim's eyes saddened at the sight of my dull ones. "Didn't make it, did he." it wasn't a question.

"No." I said, and had to take in a deep breath to keep my eyes from blurring. "He didn't."  
  
"Well." Tim muttered at last. "I'm going to go find us some coffee."  
  
"Go for it," I said, and gave him the directions to the dining saloon.

I stayed on the deck for another hour helping out, trying to think of anything besides Thomas and my other friends. I couldn't handle the pain, not yet.

At 8:30, Boat 12 pulled up to us-- or rather, we pulled up to it. It was the last boat, or so Buley said, and at the tiller was Second Officer Lightoller. I nearly cried out with relief as I saw him, exhausted but still commanding the boat. It was clear that there were many more in this load than the sixty-five maximum, and it was low on the water.

Lightoller was the last one aboard. I don't know how he hauled himself up the ladder, he was so tired. His eyes were half closed and had dark circles underneath them, and he was shivering from the cold-- his uniform was still damp from the sea. I don't know why I felt so attached to him, but I made sure that I was there when he finally stepped onto the deck.

For a moment he swayed, and I thought he would fall over, but I quickly stepped forward and he grabbed my shoulder to steady himself. "Thank you," he said tiredly, and only then did he look up, and his sunken eyes widened. "Carrie," he breathed. "You-- you're here!"  
  
"Hey, I told you I'd make it to a boat." I said, taking his left hand and throwing his arm around my shoulder to support him; half of his weight fell there. "Come on, I'll take you to the hospital wing."

"No," he said, but we were already walking. "They'll want me on the bridge. . ."

"Bullshit," I said as we made steady progress toward the entrance of the corridors. "You can't report anything in this state."

"You're right." he said without argument, then mumbled, "How did you get to a lifeboat?"

  
"Swam." I said simply. 

"Oh." Lightoller half smiled. "Right. Surprising how you can do that in water."

"Sure is," I said, and smiled back a little. "What about you? Looks like you got that collapsible righted."

"Not really," he admitted as we moved down a corridor clogged with passengers. "We had about thirty men on the collapsible, then Number 12 found us about an hour ago and took us on board. We were nearly sinking by that point."

"No wonder you're so soaked," I said; a line of water had soaked into my shoulders from his sleeve. "I can't believe you're still standing."

"Neither can I." he said, and I drew his arm from my shoulder as we got to the infirmary. "Thanks, Carrie." he leaned against the wall for a moment, shivering. I waited, my own legs trembling from exhaustion. If I didn't sit down soon, I was going to collapse.

"You're welcome." I said, and he took in a deep breath before pushing himself off the wall again. "You go get some rest."

"I shall." he said, and dragged himself into the crowded infirmary.

I breathed in a shaky breath before turning away. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with exhaustion, dizziness making the corridor spin. My knees buckled, and I don't even remember hitting the floor.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I blinked slowly, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I still felt tired, but one hell of a lot better, and the dizziness was gone. My clothes and hair were dry. I slowly looked around the ten-by-twenty room; I was on a bed almost right across from the door, and nurses were quietly moving around. The windows were dark; it was either very late or very early.

Suddenly I noticed someone standing in the door, and I turned my head on the pillow to look.

It was Thomas.

A trillion thoughts burst through my mind in that nanosecond. He was standing there, wrist on the doorframe and hand on his hip, just as he'd been when I'd last seen him. He was fighting a smile, that look I'd come to love, and his eyes twinkled as they stared into mine. 

I sat bolt upright and his name flew from my lips. "Thomas!"

He was gone.

I blinked, wide-eyed, and realized that nurses were staring at me as I gaped at the empty doorway. No. Please, God, _no_-- I couldn't have been dreaming. "There was just someone there," I said, my breath coming short and fast, heart pounding. "Wasn't there? I just saw--"  


"You were dreaming, miss." one of the nurses said gently.

I felt like I couldn't breathe; I threw off the sheets and ran for the doorway. "_Miss_!" one of the nurses said, irritated, as I poked my head around the door. No one was on either side of the long corridor. 

Trembling from head to foot, adrenaline aftereffects surging through me, I headed back for my bed, grabbed my shoes from either side of it, and headed once again for the door. The clock on the way out told me that it was five-thirty, and the dark windows told me that it was still morning.

I hurried down the quiet corridor, hopping on one foot for several feet as I tried to get my right shoe on, and then switching feet to get my left shoe on. I didn't even bother to tie them, and continued until I got to the boat deck.

The air was chilly, but not freezing, and it smacked into me as I hurried towards the bow. The ship was steaming toward the faint line of blue on the horizon, and I picked my way through knots of passengers sleeping in the open on the deck. Finally I reached the forecastle, almost running now as I reached the front railings of the ship.

I practically collapsed, falling to my knees and hooking my arms over a bar of railing. Everything seemed to hit me at that moment, and suddenly I was crying like a baby. Thankfully there was no one nearby; my entire body shook with sobs and hot tears slid down my cheeks. I watched the sea rushing by below, the white-crested water spill out from around the bow. I buried my head in my arms and just let it all out, wracked with sobs.

First there was Jack. I'd been traveling with him for two years now, and I loved him like a brother. We'd been so close in our travels, both teaching each other so much about life. We'd seen it all, good times and bad, and we'd been through it together, with each other and Fabrizio. Hell, I didn't even know if the Italian made it.

Then there was Tommy. Somehow, in the past few days, he'd grown on me. He was a good friend, had such a wonderful sense of humor, and was such a fine person. God, and he'd been shot down by Murdoch.

Murdoch. Jesus Christ. Another close friend. He was the one who came to me with the knowledge that Thomas was falling for me; he'd been the one I could go to when Mrs. DeWitt Bukater had nearly destroyed my relationship with Thomas. He was the one who helped me back over the rail, who was touched so deeply by my saying that I valued his friendship. And he committed suicide. A man who couldn't bear to live with the weight of two lives taken by his hand, and so he'd killed himself. 

And finally there was Thomas.

God, where to begin. The others might have been my friends, but Thomas also _loved_ me. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, and the ring on my thumb was proof of that. Never had I been loved the way Thomas had loved me. Never had I known someone else who gave a rat's ass about blueprints and shipbuilding, never had anyone taught me so much. Never in all my life had I been cherished like that. Thomas had been someone I could share my deepest secrets and fears with, someone that I could have a nice conversation with, someone whom I could trust above all others. It was Thomas who loved me for my love, and who refused to let class separate us. 

I watched tears slide off my knuckles and into the sea, and hated that I was crying. I _never_ cried, and yet lately I seemed to be doing a hell of a lot of it. I must have sat there for a full ten minutes, crying over the loss of my friends and fiance, of all the passengers, and of the great liner that had brought us all together. 

Finally, when the sky was graying, my tears had slowed and stopped. The cool breeze didn't feel quite as fierce, and it dried my cheeks gently, strands of hair waving under its current. I continued to stare at the horizon, watching the gray clouds, wondering what the hell I was going to do once I got to New York.

"Carrie?"

I turned slowly at the voice behind me. Lightoller stood about ten feet away, and the look on his face was almost embarrassed. I wiped my eyes to make sure the final tear was gone, and then I did my best to smile at him. "Hey, Charles."

"Good morning." he said back, hands folded behind his back, greatcoat dry now. "Feeling better?"  


"Much," I said, rising and heading over to him. "You?"  
  
"I'm fine, thank you." he spoke quietly. Lightoller really did look better, but he still had a drained look about him. "Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come share a cup of coffee with a few of the officers and I."

"Thanks, but no thanks." I said. I'd never know what to do around the other officers-- Lightoller and Lowe were the only ones I knew. "I'd better not."

"I thought you should know," he said gently. "Both Harry and-- well, Mr. Lowe and Mr. Boxhall both requested that you join us. I did, as well."

I was touched that I meant that much to the three of them, but was a little surprised at Boxhall's request, considering that he was the one who threw me into that lifeboat when I hadn't wanted to get in. "I'd feel out of place," I admitted. "Thanks, but--"  


"Carrie, you were one of the biggest helps we had all night." Lightoller said quietly, meaning each word. "Lowe informed me of your help with the lifeboat. And you were of so much assistance to me with the other collapsibles. You risked your life for some of us-- we don't brush actions like that aside."

I let out a long breath, and swallowed. "You really want me there?" I asked Lightoller one more time.

"Yes." he assured me, smiling warmly at me.

I nodded then. "Okay. You have me convinced."

"Good." he smiled, and gestured to me to walk with him. "By the way," he said quietly as we picked our way through sleeping passengers. "Who were you standing with on the rail a few moments ago?"

I stared at him. "What?" When he repeated it, I said, "The cold is getting to you-- I wasn't standing with anyone."

"I saw him," Lightoller said with a sideways glance at me. "I was up on the bridge, and when I came down to get you, he was gone."

"He was just standing there?" I said suspiciously, embarrassed to have been caught by both Lightoller and that guy, crying my eyes out.

"Right next to you," Lightoller said, just as suspicious.

"Well, then, he didn't say anything." I said, then pushed the thought from my mind. "Where are we going for the coffee, anyway?"

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The dining saloon was crowded with sleeping passengers, but off in a corner, near a large set of windows, there was a small circle of officers, all seated Indian-style on the carpet, a steaming mug of coffee before each of them. I found myself in between Lowe and Lightoller, and was introduced to Third Officer Bert Pitman before having a mug of coffee offered to me as well.

It was fairly comforting to be seated on the floor like real human beings with the officers. All of them looked dead tired, and saved no strength in trying to sit up straight or look presentable. Lowe's hair was sticking up at odd angles, and Pitman's jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Carrie," Lightoller said. "Did you hear about Will?"  
  
"Saw it happen," I said as a large swallow of coffee went down my throat, warming me to the bone. _Damn_, was it good. 

"So he did commit suicide, then?" Boxhall said, eyes tired with depression. 

I nodded, and fought the lump in the back of my throat. "He shot two passengers and then turned the gun on himself."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Lightoller said gently to me. "I know you two were close."

I nodded, and tried to smile my gratitude. I failed miserably, and looked around the circle. "Did Moody make it?"

"No." Lowe had to bite his lower lip to keep it from trembling, but let it go when it did no good. I found myself putting a hand on his shoulder in support. "He didn't."

"Twenty-four years old." Boxhall mumbled, leaning his elbow on his knee, tracing his finger along the lip of his coffee mug. "The kid was only _twenty-four years old_."

"What about Andrews?" Pitman asked me. 

"He stayed behind," I told him, and raged total war with my tears. "Made me leave him. . . in the smoking room." I felt Lowe's arm around my shoulders; we held each other in our grief, and if the other officers noticed, they didn't mention it.

"I heard a steward saw him at around ten after two," Boxhall said quietly. "Said that Tom was just staring at that painting over the fireplace."

"What painting?" Lightoller asked.

"_Approach to the New World_." Boxhall supplied. "The steward said he tried to get Andrews to move, but the man didn't even hear him. He was just staring into space."

Lightoller passed me a handkerchief; I wiped my eyes. "Sorry," I apologized, my fist tight around the small linen cloth. 

"Don't apologize," Boxhall said, staring intently at me. "I'd think something was wrong if you _weren't_ upset."

I tried to nod, and sniffled, looked down at my coffee cup. "Hey, who made this stuff? It's really good."

"I did." Lowe said after a moment, and sniffled as well. 

We talked quietly for another half an hour; by the time we were finished, it was only six o'clock a.m. I couldn't just mull around, however. I'd go crazy if I wasn't working, and I asked the officers if there was a job I could be doing. Pitman asked then asked me if I knew Morse Code, to which I replied in the affirmative. I'd picked it up at Garrison and Wheeler, along with some of the other boys. Pitman suggested that I go to the Marconi room on the ship to help out the _Carpathia_'s wireless operator, who was probably overwhelmed, as well as Harold Bride, the junior wireless operator from the _Titanic_. I thanked him for the suggestion, then thanked all of them for having me to coffee. They assured me that if I needed anything during the rest of the trip, I should find them, and they'd be happy to help me out. 

The date was Tuesday, April 16th, 1912. It was a brand-new day, and it was time to get to work.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Author's Note: Well folks, we're winding down. Not QUITE the end. Quite. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed :) All the thank-yous in the world wouldn't be enough. Oh yeah, and Rachel-- sorry. But hey, it's a free country. You can choose not to like this story any more if you want to. Let's see here. . . oh, yeah. Forgive my Morse code knowledge (or lack thereof). It kind of sucks. Okay, it REALLY sucks. And just an historical note: I know I have it all over this story, but hugging was just not something people of this time period did. So that's kind of hypocritical, but for some characters, I just don't think a handshake would do it. Yeah. Oh, and I don't think the Brooklyn Bridge really has all that stonework stuff I mention. . . oh well. Hey, folks, I've said it before, I'll say it again: THAT'S WHY THIS STUFF IS FAN _FICTION. _KEYWORD: FICTION!! Anyway, if I've forgotten to say something, I'll just put it in the next chapter's A/N. Thanks, review (pleeeease!) and enjoy if you can!!!!

TWELVE

"God damn it!" I burst out, tearing the headphones off of my head as the return fire from the _Olympic_ pinged loudly throughout the room.

Even Harry Bride had jumped a mile at the noise. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, trembling. "They're twenty miles away! Tell them to turn down their signal!"

"Believe you me, I'm working at it," I said furiously, tapping at the Morse code transmitter. "Turn. . . down. . . that. . . bloody. . . signal!"

"You'd think they'd know better by now." Bride said, eyes bright with fatigue, dark circles stamped beneath them. 

"Have you been aboard her?" I asked, still tapping away to the _Olympic_. 

"For a few months," he said, tiredly pushing hair out of his eyes. "Looks exactly like the _Titanic_, except she's two hundred feet smaller."

"Dinner," announced Lightoller as he stepped into the tiny room, bearing a tray on which two bowls brimming with vegetable stew sat. "Actually, I think it's more like breakfast."

"Thanks, Lights," Bride said tiredly. "But I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense," Lightoller said, carefully brushing a stack of papers aside to set down the tray. "You haven't eaten since. . . well, since Tuesday night."

"Can't eat," Bride said, picking up a pencil. "It'll only come up."

Lightoller dropped into the spare seat. "In the past few years, Mr. Bride," he said. "Your appetite has gained you a greater reputation than your radio skills. And now you're refusing vegetable stew? Seasick?"

Bride put his head on his arms, tapping his pencil gently against a notepad. "You might say that."

Lightoller glanced at me. "Well, Carrie, I'm sure you can eat something."

"Ha, ha." I dryly, still tapping at the _Olympic_. At least they'd turned down their signal. I glanced at Bride. "I didn't know you couldn't keep anything down."

"Comes up like fireworks on New Year's." he mumbled. "If I eat, it means I'm not doing anything else, which means I get to thinking, which leads me to. . ." he trailed off, and closed his eyes. ". . . God, all I can think of is that ship just. . . just. . . and _Phillips_. . ." 

He was shivering; Lightoller and I traded glances over his shoulders. I'd heard from Lightoller that the other wireless operator, John Phillips, had climbed aboard Collapsible B with Bride and the second officer, but had died in the middle of the night. "Hey, Bride." I said gently. "Tell you what. You go on break--"

"Oh, rubbish--" he interrupted, but I cut him off.

"You go on break-- we'll get Lights here or Lowe or somebody to make you a cup of tea, then you try to get some sleep."

He looked half grateful, but muttered, "Can't sleep on tea."

"We'll take the caffeine out." I assured him, and tried to smile. "You'll be able to keep down a cup of tea, then maybe we can get some dry toast into you when you come around again."

He sat up, dull nineteen-year-old eyes taking in all the equipment. "What about Cottam?"

Harold Cottam, the wireless operator for the _Carpathia_, was currently on his break. I said, "Let him sleep. I can handle this."

"You sure?" Bride asked. "Because I can stay, if--"

I waved my hand at him, smiling. "Go on. You need the rest. Go find Lowe and tell him to get you one of those cups of tea."

"Like Lowe will listen," he mumbled, standing up.

"Well," I said. "Tell him Lights sent you." and Lightoller grinned. 

"I will, then." Bride said, beaming tiredly at me. "Thanks, Stevenson." and he was gone.

I leaned my elbow on the table, removing one of the phones from my ear. "Is every junior seaman in the Atlantic named Harold?"

Lightoller shrugged. "Sure seems like it." he glanced at the equipment. "What's going on in here?"

I took a bowl of stew in one hand, and a spoon in the other. "I got back to the _Olympic _about not coming to help us. Captain Rostron and Ismay both decided that it would be way too much to have the _Olympic_ coming along when she looks just like the _Titanic_-- plus they didn't want to have the passengers go through another transfer."

Lightoller nodded as I took a bite of the stew. "I can see that."

The stew was delicious-- not too hot, but not stone cold, either, and the spices were mixed just right. "What's today? Wednesday?"

"It's probably Thursday by now," he said, fishing his pocket watch from his vest. "Yes-- it's one thirty in the morning. Thursday."

"One thirty?" I finished another bite of my stew. "Geez."

"When was the last time you had a break?" Lightoller asked me suddenly.

"Four hours ago." I lied. Truthfully, I hadn't slept in twenty-nine hours. After the coffee breakfast with the officers Tuesday morning, I'd gone to the wireless room, then to the services for the lost and living, then back to the wireless room. I was let off at one o'clock p.m. for a break, slept for seven hours, then got back to business in the Marconi room, where I'd been since then. 

"Right," Lightoller said, clearly not believing me. "Listen, if you want, I'll get Cottam in here in the next hour or so, then let you take a--"

"I said it's been four hours." I said, swallowing more stew. "I'm fine."

"None of the stewards have seen you on deck," Lightoller persisted gently. "And Lowe even talked to the nurses in the infirmary. You've been here for an entire day. More than that, even. And you're irritated. I don't know you all that well, but irritation isn't in your nature."

He was right. Well, sort of. I could get pretty damn irritated when I felt like it, but he was right about my being ticked at the moment, and about my not being anywhere besides the radio room for the day. "Thanks, Lights." I said quietly, removing the headphones. "You're right, a break would be good."

He nodded understandingly. "We're expected to make the coast at eight o'clock tonight."

I shoveled a potato chunk onto my spoon. "I've heard. Look, I don't want to be sleeping more than a couple of hours. Understood? I can do a lot here when I'm up-- not when I'm sleeping."

"I understand." he assured me. "Go on. I'll get Cottam."

"Thanks." I stood up, my legs protesting. "Can I take this with me?" I gestured to the stew in my hands.

"By all means." Lightoller said, and I left the room with a final thank-you.

It was cold out, but far from the freezing cold felt on the deck just three nights ago on the _Titanic_. I walked slowly, bowl of stew warming my hands, and found a spot on a set of stairs near the bridge. A light was on every few feet along the wall to the officer's quarters, and it made it somewhat difficult to peer through the darkness ahead. 

I let out a long and tired breath, shifting my spoon through my soup, leaning my head against the banister. I was dead tired, but I wasn't ready for sleep. Everything was still so raw and painful. . . I shivered involuntarily as I remembered the forward funnel falling so close to Collapsible B that Lightoller and I had been clinging to. I thought of the screams racing out across the calm waves after the ship had gone down, of Chief Officer Wilde, clinging to a deck chair and desperately blasting his whistle. All in vain hope that someone would understand that it was an officer, and come back to help, and pick up a few more people along the way.

_Did he know he was going to die_? I thought to myself, chewing slowly. _Did he know that he'd freeze to death when he was blowing that whistle_? _Did he know that we'd come back, but be too late?_

It was too goddam upsetting to think about.

Then, as they had in nearly every waking moment of spare time I'd had in the last few hours, my thoughts shifted to Thomas.

I turned the ring on my thumb slowly. Somehow, I was still clinging to some shred of hope that he might be alive. That he'd somehow changed his mind to go through with staying behind on his ship, and had swam to a boat, or had found some way off. But it was impossible. If he were alive, why hadn't he gone straight to the bridge to speak with Captain Rostron and the officers of both ships? Why hadn't he stopped by the Marconi room, demanding that messages be sent to Belfast and New York?

And why hadn't he found me?

I thought back to the odd occurrence Tuesday morning, where I'd awoken and thought I'd seen Thomas in the doorway. The more I thought about it, the more I could recall a distinct sense of surrealism in seeing him. Yes, I'd seen Thomas-- but in a dream. The picture of him had been slightly hazy, and no one just disappears like that. And if it had really been him, he wouldn't have just stood there-- he'd have gone straight over to wake me up, to see me. Plus the nurses hadn't seen him. 

"Shit." I muttered bitterly as tears gathered in my eyes. No, it was impossible that Thomas had survived. And besides, Boxhall had said that a steward saw him at ten after two-- ten minutes before the _Titanic_ went under, and five minutes after I'd left. He wouldn't have changed his mind and tried to escape.

"Didn't expect to see you up this late."

I jumped a mile as Fifth Officer Lowe came up behind me, nearly spilling stew all over myself. "Jesus." I said, blinking rapidly to clear my eyes. "Sorry. Didn't hear you."

"That's all right." he sat down beside me, and then his eyes took on a look of regret as he saw mine. "Did I come at a bad time?" he asked gently.

"Nope." I said, breathing deeply for a moment to steady myself, and I smiled at him. "You sure didn't."

He glanced at me sideways. "Did Lightoller really request that I brew tea for a junior wireless operator?"

"Nope." I said again, smiling slightly at him. "I requested it, then said you'd do it if Lights told you to."

He half-smiled as well. "You'd have me be a steward to that boy?"

"Hey, come on now." I said, lifting an eyebrow. "Bride's a good kid. He just needed a break-- his nerves are fried. And you're a junior officer too, you know." 

He shook his head slightly. "Not something I'm particularly proud of."

"At least you're an officer at all." I pointed out. 

Lowe smiled at that. "This is true." the smile faded slightly. "At least, I was. . . as of Monday morning."

There was a long silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. "Listen to us," I said quietly. "We're less than seventy-two hours past the most terrible accident in the history of boating, and we're talking as though it's a nice Sunday in the park."

"It helps close the wound." Lowe said, just as softly. "Thinking about it is like throwing salt into that wound."

"But we'll have to think about it eventually." I muttered. "I mean, the longer you hold it off, the more painful it will become."

Lowe said nothing for a long beat, and neither did I. Finally he said, "What are your plans after we dock?"

Christ. I hadn't even thought about it. "I don't know." I realized aloud. "I guess. . ." I looked down at the ring on my thumb. "I guess I never really thought about life without Jack and Fabrizio and Thomas."

Lowe put his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. "Did Thomas leave you nothing that he wanted you to do in his passing?"

"Well, he did, sort of." I said, the plans heavy against my leg in my workpants pocket. "He wants me to mail something to his uncle in Belfast." As much as it was wonderful to dream, my becoming master (or mistress) shipbuilder seemed out of the question, plus I didn't feel like sharing it with Lowe just then.

"Doesn't sound like him." Lowe told me, once again looking sideways at me. I didn't meet his eyes, and Lowe dropped the subject. "Well." he said quietly. "I'm off to get some sleep."

"See you." I said, looking over now, smiling at him. "Thanks for stopping by." When he left, I finished my stew, and then wandered below decks, where I had a small room to myself-- arranged by Lightoller, bless the man. I crashed there, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I stood in silence as the rain poured from a black sky, staring up at the dimly lit Statue of Liberty looming out of the darkness. I remembered that day, eons ago, when Fabrizio had murmured dreamily that he'd love to stare at the Statue of Liberty until his eyes hurt.

_Is this what he meant_? I thought as my eyes stung with a fresh batch of tears. I brushed them off of my cheeks almost angrily, hands in my pockets, still turning the ring on my thumb. _Did he mean he'd weep when he finally saw it?_

To my right, an officer from the _Carpathia_ was going around with an umbrella and checklist, taking names. On a sudden impulse, I stepped over to him, but before I'd even opened my mouth, his features took on a look of dread. He clearly thought I would be another one of the hysterical passengers demanding to know if a loved one was alive. 

The second part was true, anyway. "Listen," I told him dully. "I'm not going to get all crazy on you or anything. I just wanted to know if you've got some names on your list."

He instantly relaxed. "Of course, miss."

"Dawson." I said, blinking rain out of my eyes. "Should have been steerage. Jack Dawson."

He turned the leaves of his checklist, slowly, and shook his head. "We've naught but a female Dawson, miss. I'm sorry." he truly did sound it.

I nodded slightly. "What about DeRossi, Fabrizio?"

Again he thumbed through the pages, taking his time. "No, miss."

"Thomas Andrews," I said finally, that shred of hope still alive.

He didn't even have to look at his checklist. "He went down with his masterpiece, miss."

I let out a long breath, trembling. "Thanks. That's all."

"I'm sorry," he said again, quietly, and gripped his pencil. After a moment he said, "Can I take your name?"

"Stevenson." I told him. "Carrie Stevenson."

"Thank you." he moved on, and the rain again pattered down on me. 

The ring was heavy around my thumb, and for a moment I wondered why I hadn't chosen to take Thomas' last name. After all, he'd asked me to marry him. But it was a matter of common sense-- how would his relatives react at hearing that Thomas had proposed to a third-class girl? Because if I took his name, certainly they'd find out. Hell, they could take the thing to court.

Speaking of court. . . 

I hurried after the officer who'd just left me; thankfully he wasn't in the middle of a conversation with anyone else. "D'you have a Brian O'Reily?"

After a good ten seconds of looking, he said quietly, "No."

Well, that was a relief. Brian O'Reily was the name of the sick guy who'd tried to take advantage of me in the stairwell, and again below decks after the ship hit. I realized somewhere that now, as both the defendant and the two witnesses were dead, there'd be no trial at all. 

I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Lightoller, Lowe, and Boxhall, the last two sharing an umbrella, Lightoller with one all to himself. "Hey, guys." I said, smiling a little at them.

They smiled back, Lightoller standing next to me, his umbrella over both of our heads. "We just came to say good-bye." Lightoller said hesitantly. "They-- they're going to want us to help get the lifeboats down to the pier in a moment."

I smiled a little at them. "I figured." There was a pause. "Well, thanks for all the help."

"It's us who should be thanking you," Lowe said quietly. "You did as much work as any of us."

I knew I was blushing. "Thanks, but you guys did the hardest part."

"Miss Stevenson," Boxhall said, still uncomfortable using my first name. "I'd like to apologize again for not listening to you the other night, when I put you in--"

"Hey," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay-- you were only doing your job." I couldn't stop a smile. "Besides, if you hadn't, I wouldn't have seen Murdoch one last time."

This seemed to make him feel a little better, and he smiled weakly. "Yes. Right. Well." We shook hands, and I met his uncertain stare with a confident one, trying to assure him that he'd done the right thing.

Lowe tried to smile at me, but forget the handshake-- he somewhat impulsively put his arms around me in a warm embrace.

"Lowe!" I cried, though pleased that he thought me friend enough to do so. "I'm soaking wet!"

"Well, so am I," he came back with, and I returned the hug, both Boxhall and Lightoller smiling at Lowe's boldness. "Was nice working with you," he told me before pulling away again, eyes sincere and bright. "You take care of yourself."

"You, too." I said, and looked at Lightoller. He smiled and offered a one-armed embrace, as one of his hands still held the umbrella. "Stay out of trouble," I told him, smiling.

He nodded, and pulled back. "Same to you." he murmured, and thanked me again for my help.

I turned back to the Statue of Liberty as they left, and was just getting a grip on the intensely depressed feeling in my stomach when suddenly a hand locked onto my elbow; I turned and saw the concerned face of Lightoller before me. "Lights?" I said as he released my elbow.

"Just wanted to let you know," he said quietly. "If there's ever anything you need-- a place to stay, something to eat, even a good friend-- come and find me. You'll have them."

Somehow, that touched me to the bone. "Thanks." I said, fighting tears. "That really. . . that really means a lot to me."

He nodded shortly, and did his best to smile. "Cheerio, then." and he was gone.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

It was shocking how many people stood at pier 54 to see us arrive. The docks were jam-packed with people, and it was rather intimidating as I stepped over the gangplank and onto dry land, following a stream of passengers.

A couple of steps forward and I nearly fell over; it took me a few more steps to regain my land legs, which I used to fight through the crowd of reporters. Several of them dashed off to follow passengers; flashbulbs popped left and right, questions were being hollered. It wasn't that much different from the chaos early Monday morning. 

"How many dead?"

"Is it true that the _Titanic_ has been towed--"

"Mayhem at the White Star Line offices--"

"Where is Captain Smith--"

"Has anyone seen Thomas Andrews--"

Somehow I picked out that shouter immediately; he was several paces to my left and in the thick of the crowd. I fought my way over and grabbed his sleeve. "You knew Thomas Andrews?"

He looked down at me, shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. I nearly jumped; his brown eyes looked almost exactly like Thomas'. Despite the unkempt hair, he was dressed in a fine, expensive suit, and held a large umbrella. "I know him, yes. He's my cousin." 

I tried to speak, but somehow my voice quit on me. I couldn't bear telling a relative what had happened. 

"Why," he said, almost suspiciously. "D'you know him?"

"He was my fiancé." I mumbled, staring at the ground.

"What?" he hadn't heard me.

"He was my friend." I said louder, looking back up.

The man stared at me for a long moment. Finally he said, "_Was_?"

I pushed my hands in my pocket, mainly to hide Thomas' ring. "Thomas Andrews gave his lifebelt to a passenger and went down with the _Titanic_."

For a moment the man looked dumbstruck; the look in his eyes brought me back to the night of the collision, when the tremor had jolted the entire ship. "You're serious?" he said after a long silence.

"Why would I lie about something like this?"

He let out a long breath as it sunk in. "I apologize." he extended his hand. "George Wallace."

"Carrie Stevenson." I shook his hand. "I'm sorry about this."

"No, no." he said, a heavy sorrow clouding his eyes. "It's not as though it's your fault." George regarded me for a moment. "Did you know him well?"

"Very." I said.

"Well." he tried to smile, and failed. "I'd best be moving on. . . his family will want to know. I've got to send them a Marconigram right away."

I let him go, watching his retreating back as he pulled his coat collar up around his ears to ward off the cold and damp.

I shivered; my coat was gone, and my clothes were soaking again. I had no place to go, no one to go with, and nothing to go on. On impulse I rooted through my pockets, and came up with a dime. Christ, if I'd known it was there sooner, it would have been gone.

For a moment I just stood there holding the dime, rain continuing its relentless downpour. Then I folded the dime in my fist, pushed it back into my pocket, and started walking.

One block, and I was shivering again. Putting my hands in my pockets did no good whatsoever. Two blocks, and I felt as though I'd been battered with sledgehammers. Three blocks and my feet felt heavy as a few small cars. I hadn't eaten anything since last night, and my stomach was growling from hunger. 

Four blocks, and I dug the dime from my pocket and entered a bakery. I spent five cents on yesterday's bread and was allowed to stay inside for a few moments while I ate. Then it was back into the rain again; I felt only slightly better. 

Five blocks and I recognized the territory; six and I was nearly to my destination. Seven blocks, and I stopped before the large brick building before me. A large, black sign over the entrance was painted with gold and white letters, reading, GARRISON & WHEELER SHIPBUILDERS, LTD.

Of course, the building itself was closed this late at night. But the entrance had a curved canopy in front of it; I sat down against the brickwork and under the canopy, drew my knees up to my chest, and put my arms around them. I closed my eyes and thought of that warm beach in Maine, and tried desperately not to think of the man whose ring was around my thumb. 

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"Hoi!" 

I jumped a mile as someone nudged me, blinking bleary-eyed up at the person. His face was dark, thick mustache well-trimmed; he'd nudged me with his well-shined patented leather shoe. From his business suit I could tell he worked at Garrison and Wheeler, and I scrambled to my feet. 

"What the hell d'you think you were doing?" he snapped at me.

I was still waking up, and I squinted against the sunlight. "Sleeping. Sir."

"Well, get on out. D'you have any idea how awful you're making the place look?"

I didn't recognize him; he had to be new. "Sir," I said. "I'm trying to come back. I mean, I used to work here."

He looked at me as though I'd dropped the f-bomb in his face. "The hell you did!" And he pushed his way past me to the door. "Get out of here!"

_Wonderful,_ I thought sarcastically, stretching my cramped muscles. _That went well._ I gave it a minute before going inside. The sundial shaped like an ocean liner outside the entrance told me that it was shortly past nine. So the place had been open for an hour, and I'd slept all through it. 

I found myself practically barging through the doors. I was nearly dry, but I was streaked with dirt from the place where I'd sat, and with my tangled hair, I was positive I looked insane.

All the better.

The lobby was just like I remembered it; long and wide and high-ceilinged, leading to an enormous mahogany desk behind which a clerk sat. The windows streamed light in; portraits of ships hung on the wall. One of them was completely covered in black cloth, one that hadn't been there when I'd left-- I figured that the picture was of the _Titanic_. 

When I got to the desk, I put my arms on the shoulder-high surface. I didn't recognize the clerk. "Hi," I said. "Look, I'm Carrie Stevenson-- I need to see Robert Wheeler, Junior."

The clerk surveyed me as a housekeeper looks at a dirty room. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No." I said. "I'm his friend, from a few years ago. I've just returned from--"

The clerk smiled silkily. "I'm sorry. You can't see him without having scheduled an appointment beforehand."

"You don't understand," I told him, my stomach churning. "We were close friends. Isn't that enough?"

"Mr. Wheeler," the clerk snapped. "would not associate himself with the likes of you."

"Want to bet?" I snapped, now just plain pissed off. "You can even go to him and tell him my name. He'll know me."

"I cannot allow you," the clerk said sharply. "Someone of your state of being should not have even been allowed past the entrance."

For a moment I glared at him, furious. Then I turned away from the desk and headed left for the corridor that I knew led to Robert's office. "Miss!" the clerk called, rushing after me, and then, louder, "_Security_!"

Without warning, I felt two beefy hands lock onto either of my forearms, and I looked up into the most intimidating faces I'd ever seen. "What the hell!?" I demanded of the clerk as I was half dragged toward the exit. "What's happened to this place!?"

"Come back again," the clerk called, ignoring my question. "and we'll make sure you don't return!"

I barely managed to catch myself as I was practically thrown outside; I splashed through a puddle in the road before turning back to the door, which had been closed. By this point I was nearly gaping. If I couldn't get Garrison and Wheeler to take me back, then who. . . who would?

For a moment longer I stood staring at the door, and then I picked up my feet again and began to move.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I sat by the warm light of the tavern's fireplace, hands wrapped around a large coffee mug. It was shortly past midnight, now Saturday. All day Friday I'd walked around trying to find someplace that needed work and would take me, but I was usually met with the same excuse that the Garrison and Wheeler clerk had used. The sad part was that they were right. My hair looked terrible, my clothing was damp and dirty, and my eyes had dark half-moons below them.

I'd arrived in the tavern at about ten thirty, damp and tired (it was raining again), when I'd asked the woman in charge if I could work for a cup of coffee. She agreed, so I spent over an hour doing dishes in the back kitchen from the constant stream of customers. 

I stared into the flames as they popped and crackled, occasionally sipping the (spiked) coffee, turning the ring on my thumb, thoughts full to bursting of Thomas. If he were here. . . what would we be doing now? He'd probably already be on a ship back to Ireland, heading for the White Star Line offices and his uncle, prepared to answer swarms of questions and defend his company. Would I be with him as his wife?

I looked down at the pocket in the leg of my dungarees, and unbuttoned it, sliding the folded blueprints out. They were still slightly damp, but they hadn't smeared at all, and it was the first time I'd looked at them since seeing them Sunday afternoon, when we'd gone over them together at his desk, and. . .

A small sheet of paper slipped out from between the folds. The side facing me was blank, but, curious, I turned it over. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized Thomas' handwriting. In his quick, penciled letters, I read the following:

_My dearest Carrie,_

I pray this note may never reach your hands, but if you should find yourself reading it, its purpose is to give you an address to send the blueprints to. Remember, only if there is no chance_ of your being a part of its construction, then, and only then, send the plans to this address:_

W.S.L. Offices

Lord Pirrie (Unnamed)

34 Connery Ln.

67451 Belfast, Ireland 

__

God bless you, Carrie. I thank you from my heart, which belongs only to you, now and forever.

Yours,

Thomas

My hands shook. When had he time to write this? In the smoking room, perhaps? Then I remembered emerging from my room after grabbing my jacket, right before Thomas and I had headed to the bridge after the collision. He'd been bent over his desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper, which he'd stuck into his pocket before leaving. Had this been what he was writing? Could he tell even then that he'd never leave his ship?

It was almost too much to think about. Instead, I spread the blueprints before me, and looked over the familiar layout, drinking more coffee, the noise of the drinkers behind me loud and cheerful. 

Another five minutes had passed when a voice said, "Excuse me, miss," and I looked up and saw the middle-aged face of the tavern keeper. She looked slightly embarrassed, but kept her voice low. "Forgive me, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon. You're not good for my business. The men at the bar are speaking about you."

I glanced over at them; they were a rough and rowdy crowd, streaked with sweat and grime themselves. I looked back up at the woman. "They aren't much of a sight, either."

"I really would appreciate your departure." she insisted firmly. "And thank you again for the work." She turned on her heel to leave.

I stared back into the flames, knowing that I'd have to go into the cold again. I let out a long breath, then downed the rest of my coffee. Pocketing the blueprints, I stood up, and left my coffee mug on the mantle. I then cast a glance around at the bar, and made my way swiftly to the exit.

I was reaching for the door handle when suddenly a man stepped in front of me, looking as though he could be related to one of the security guards at Garrison and Wheeler. "Where d'you think you're goin'?" he said, undertones of anger creeping into his voice.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to push past him, a little afraid.

His glare didn't soften. "I _said_," he repeated. "Where d'you think you're _goin_'?"

"I'm leaving," I told him, meeting his cold stare, noticing that the bar had gone deathly silent behind me. "I'm obviously not welcome here."

His eyes flickered to my left hand hanging at my side. "Where'd you get that ring? Steal it?"

"Hell, no." I said, trying to keep from shaking. "It was given to me."

"What d'you want for it?" he prompted.

"I don't want anything." I said through my teeth. "It's not for sale or trade. Now please, _excuse m--_"

"I don't think so." he said calmly, thick eyebrows lowering. "Y'see, miss, I asked what you want for that ring. And I don't intend to let you pass until I'm wearin' it."

"Well, I don't intend to let you have it." I snapped, and once again tried to push past him. Suddenly his fist flew into my stomach, and I fell back, gasping for breath, the wind knocked out of me.

_Okay, then. _I thought as I stared at him in shock and anger. _ If he wants a fight, then he's going to get a fight._ I raised my fists and prepared for the worst.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

In the pouring rain at the end of the street, I grumbled curses as I tipped my head back, holding my throbbing nose closed to stop the bleeding. My shirtsleeve was splattered with blood from my nose, and my stomach was unbelievably sore. I had some bruises that were going to last me awhile, but I'd also managed to get in some pretty good punches and kicks myself before the woman running the shop threw me out. My guess was that she'd hired the man to get rid of me. Finally I gave up on my nose, and decided just to let it bleed itself out. I started walking again, trembling, occasionally wiping my face with my rain-soaked sleeve.

Somehow I felt even more exhausted than I had before all the coffee and brandy. It was raining, and I was hungry, cold, tired, and saturated with rain water. Plus, I'd just gotten into a bar fight. A _fight_ in a _bar_, for God's sake. My knees were knocking together by the time I found shelter under a small bridge. I curled up on a concrete block in the space between it and the bridge, and closed my eyes, glad to be out of the rain. I tried to focus on anything other than the pain in my nose and stomach, and of course, could only think of Thomas. Fighting tears, I imagined that he was right next to me, holding me in his arms, whispering in my ear and telling me that everything would be alright. But I was sick of fantasy, and soon his imaginary warm embrace evaporated. I instead focused my attention on the rock-hard and freezing concrete beneath me, and fell asleep watching lighting forks in the distance.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I scooped yesterday's newspaper out of a sidewalk trashcan. The headline blared: FIFTEEN HUNDRED FEARED DEAD IN SINKING OF RMS _TITANIC_. Trembling from hunger and fatigue, I sat down on a park bench, bringing my legs up to sit Indian-style on the dry bench in my still-damp clothes, half of my shirt stained with pink. Upon looking in the window of a store earlier, I saw in my reflection that my cheek was slightly swollen and the barest shades of a bruise were showing,. The large clock on the bank told me that it was five minutes past seven o'clock in the morning, and the streets were misty with a thin veil of fog. My arms shook has I held up the newspaper, scanning the article. Inside the paper was a complete list of those dead or missing, and those who were alive. Under some of them, there were a few sentences saying when and where a funeral or memorial service would be held. My eyes immediately searched for Thomas' name, and I found it in the _deceased_ column.

His blurb read: "Andrews, Thomas. Aged 39 yrs. old. Shipbuilder. Memorial service held at 45 Hudson St. Sunday 8-9pm. Family and friends invited. Funeral to take place in Belfast, Ireland."

Today was Sunday. And tonight would be the memorial service. For a moment I contemplated whether or not I should go, then decided that the worst that could happen is that I'd be kicked out, which was more than likely. But I owed it to Thomas to try to make it to his memorial service. Besides, my mind was on him too much to do otherwise.

So that's how I found myself standing outside of 45 Hudson Street in the pouring rain (again) of Sunday evening, staring at the warmly lit parlor windows in my soaking outfit, exhausted from lack of food and sleep. From under heavy eyelids I watched the darkly clothed people hurry to the door under black umbrellas, watched the guards at the door take names. 

I approached the door at exactly eight o'clock, after one of the last cars pulled away. I tried to pass by the guards, but was stopped. "I'm sorry," the one of them said, gloved hand pulling my soaked shoulder to stop me. "You won't be permitted to enter."

"I was one of Thomas' friends," I said, feeling sick to my stomach. "We knew--"

"Were you_ really_," the other one said scathingly. "Mr. Andrews never would have stooped so low as to become acquainted with the likes of you."

"Shut it," growled the other guard to his companion, then looked at me. "Miss, you'd have to have proper attire to attend this gathering. We can't allow you inside-- you look like you just came from the slums."

"I still knew Thomas." I said defensively. "He--"

"If I must," the guard said, puffing out his chest. "I will use force to dismiss you from the premises. Now _please_-- be gone. Get some new clothes, why don't you-- clean ones."

For a moment I stared stonily back at him, then saw I wasn't about to persuade him, and turned and headed numbly away from the entrance. I didn't go back to the street, however-- I went up to stand in front of the parlor window. The orange glow from the soft lights inside cast a pleasant light into the dark night, and thunder rolled overhead as I watched the small crowd seat themselves to hear a speaker. A portrait of Thomas, surrounded by bouquets of flowers, stood near the podium.

I turned away from the window, trembling from fatigue, hunger, cold, and anger. _All day_ I'd walked around more of the city, trying to find someplace, _anyplace_, that I could work for a mere loaf of bread, and had no luck, just as I hadn't yesterday. I was convinced, however, that I shouldn't spend my nickel left over from buying bread. It was my backup, in case I was so hungry that I had to drag myself on my hands and knees. It was exhausting to be this upset and miserable, and my head was pounding fiercely, abs aching.

And now this had happened, being turned away from the memorial service for Thomas.

Standing on the sidewalk, I put a hand over the plans in my pocket. Garrison and Wheeler, I knew now, was impossible. Wasn't that the only reason I had stepped off of the _Carpathia_? That I'd wanted to try for building Thomas' ship? And now I couldn't. Without Garrison and Wheeler, there was. . . there was nothing.

I found myself walking away from 45 Hudson Street, running actually-- hurrying down the street in the pouring rain, heading for the city, where I knew the post office was. 

I banged through the door, dripping water everywhere, and went shivering to the counter. I asked the clerk for an envelope, a pen, and a stamp, and gave him my nickel for them. I enclosed the plans in the envelope, copied the address onto it, and handed the clerk the soggy envelope. "When's the mail collected?" I asked the clerk.

"Three o'clock sharp every afternoon." he replied, and I left the shop.

I walked three blocks in the rain, before stopping outside a shop whose large sign over the entrance read: BEAUCHAMP'S FIREARMS AND AMMUNITION. By now I was feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy from hunger pangs, but I got inside anyway.

There were racks of weapons on the walls, each with a miniature price tag on it. I went up to the counter and put my arms on it, not caring that it left a watermark. The white-haired man behind the counter lifted an eyebrow, but said politely, "May I help you?"

I cleared my throat; my mouth felt dry as dust. "What's the cheapest, most lethal gun you have here?"

He glanced around a moment, then took a small Webley revolver from the wall. "This here's one of our biggest sellers. Inexpensive, but she sure is reliable."

"How much?" I asked hoarsely.

"Twenty-five." he answered.

A long breath escaped my lungs. The whole reason I'd come here was to get an estimate, to see if it was worth it to try to scrounge up that kind of money. . . I bit my lip, staring at my hands. Where could I come up with twenty-five. . . with. . . oh. Lord. I looked back up at the man. "D'you do trades?"

"Depends on what you've got." he said, mustache twitching.

Swallowing hard, I slowly pulled Thomas' ring off of my finger. "What about this?"

He took it from me, and I felt sick at seeing someone else hold it. For a moment he studied it, eyes narrowed, then said, "I could give you _two_ pistols for this thing."

I nodded a little and closed my eyes to steady myself. "I'll just take this one. And a round of bullets. Keep the change." _It's material_. I thought forcefully. _The things that matter aren't man-made_. _Let it go_.

He took a paper bag from underneath the counter. "This here's a six-shot." he said, inserting a small packet of bullets into the bag, and showing me how to open the chamber of the Webley before putting it into the bag as well. "What's somebody like you need a gun for?"

"Birthday gift," I lied, and didn't care that he could tell I was fibbing. "Thanks." I left without another word.

Dawn found me in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, standing on one of the large stone ledges while the traffic passed slowly behind me. I was in the space between two large blocks of stone that kept the cables in place, nothing before me but a hundred-foot drop into the river. I faced the sunrise, watching it streak the sky with its myriad of vibrant colors.

Shaking but determined, one shoulder leaning against the stonework for support, I cracked open the Webley and emptied the packet of bullets into my hand. One by one, slowly, I pushed the bullets into the chamber, the golden sunlight spilling across my palms as I did so. When the last bullet was in place, I dropped the packet, and snapped the chamber closed. Taking in a deep breath, I lifted my shoulder and replaced it with my left hand, and then held the pistol to my temple.

My voice was rough and dry as I spoke quietly. "Give me one good reason, Thomas." I said under my breath. "Give me one damn reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger and join you." The metal was cold and terrifyingly real against my head. My thumb pulled the hammer back; I was briefly reminded of seeing Murdoch shoot himself a week ago. "If there is one reason at _all_ why I shouldn't do this, then you just try and send somebody to stop me."

A breeze picked up and chilled me to the bone in my wet clothes as I waited. 

I pushed the gun further against my temple, waiting for someone to stop me.

Nothing happened.

"Well, then." I said dully. "See you in a minute." My finger wrapped around the trigger, and one last time, I took in the brilliant sunrise.

"Carrie! _Don't!_"

My entire body jolted as I gasped; the gun nearly slipped out of my hand as I turned back to see who'd shouted-- and suddenly I was looking into the wide eyes of a shell-shocked Charles Lightoller.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

***IMPORTANT*** PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER. THERE WILL STILL BE AN EPILOGUE POSTED WITHIN THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS. BELIEVE ME, I WILL LET YOU KNOW WHEN THE STORY IS OVER!!!!

Author's Note: That out of the way, I don't think I have any real notes for this chapter. Might seem kind of short, though. Oh yeah-- is Aprodite (the ancient goddess) Greek or Roman? I said Greek, but I'm not sure, so don't have a hissyfit over that one if I'm wrong. lol And sorry it took me so frigging long to get it out. . . we have WAY too much schoolwork. I'm telling you. They just don't cut us any slack. Anyvays. . . thanks to all my reviewers! YOU GUYS ROCK!!! Please keep it up, and enjoy!!

THIRTEEN

The first thing I noticed was that I was practically drowning in warmth; I shifted slightly and realized that I was in a large, comfortable bed, under layers of blankets. Wait a second. . . My eyes snapped open and I sat bolt upright. I immediately winced; my abs became sore again at the sudden movement, and my hand flew to my cheek, where a small patch of gauze was stuck. My clothes were completely dry, as was my hair. My limbs buzzed slightly with the last traces of exhaustion, and my eyes widened as I looked around the room.

The ceiling was fifteen feet high at least; the bed was a mahogany four-poster canopy against the wall of the large room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The carpet was thick and multi-colored; a desk, dresser, and armchair were about the room. There were two doors, both of them closed., and I slowly slid out from beneath the covers of the bed, looking almost suspiciously around. I made my way to one of the doors, trying desperately to remember what had happened after I'd seen Lightoller, but nothing was coming to mind. Perhaps I'd fainted? God, I hope not. 

I pulled the door open and saw that it led to an almost picturesque bathroom; the other door opened into a short hallway; I turned right down it and emerged into a large and magnificent parlor area. A woman was there, her garb that of a maid, and she was brushing a duster over the coffee table. "Excuse me," I said, feeling more than somewhat awkward. 

She looked up, and then away. "Let me go fetch the missus." she murmured, dropped quickly into a curtsy, and hurried away. I stood there, taking in the expensive decor and ornate ceiling. My index finger automatically went to my thumb, but I discovered with a spasm of panic that Thomas' ring was no longer there. I remembered then that I'd traded it for a pistol to take my own life. _My God_, I thought, swallowing hard. _What was I thinking_?

A woman whisked into the room; she looked about mid-thirties, dark hair elegantly pinned up on her head, features friendly and pretty. She wore an afternoon dress of light plum and approached easily, used to years in her corset, hand outstretched to shake mine. "Miss Stevenson," she said, smiling a little. "I'm Sylvia Lightoller-- Charles' wife."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," I told her. "Hey, where am I?"

"You're at the Waldorf Hotel in New York City."

I blanched. "The _Waldorf_?"

"It's where my husband and I are staying for the Inquiry." she told me patiently. "He's down there now, meeting with Senator Smith and the whole lot of them."

I blinked, trying to take this all in. At least I wasn't dead. Finally I came up with, "The Inquiry?"

"The United States and Britain both have demanded inquiries to be held to question the surviving officers and more prominent crewmen and passengers of the _Titanic_."

"Oh." I said dully. "Listen, I have questions--"

"As does Charles." she returned, not unkindly. "You can understand that."

"Yeah." Suddenly I felt absolutely, utterly ashamed. Lightoller had caught me about to kill myself. About to shoot myself in the head, for the love of Peter. God knows what he must think of me.

"Hungry?" Mrs. Lightoller asked me gently.

My stomach growled. "Yes."

"Well then, why don't you get showered up-- there's clean clothes for you in there-- and when you come out, I'll have something ready to eat."

The thought that I was actually going to get real sustenance was nearly overwhelming. "Thank you," I said gratefully. "Really. I appreciate it."

"You're quite welcome," she assured me with a kind smile. "Go on."

The water that cascaded over me was so hot that the bathroom filled with steam in minutes. It felt wonderful not to be cold and shivering, to get the grit and sweat and rainwater out of my hair, to wash away the past couple of days. I found that the change of clothes she left me was almost exactly like I'd been wearing-- a pair of dark pants and an Oxford shirt. Though the shirt was too large, I was fine with that-- it made it all the more comfortable. 

When I stepped into the parlor again, the maid directed me into the dining area, where a large plate stacked with hotcakes sat. A tray of butter and a boat of syrup were near it. There was a small plate of fruit as well, and a small bowl of oatmeal. "Geez Louise." I said to Sylvia as she entered the room, smiling at the look of wonder on my face. "I can't eat all this."

"Just eat what you can." she told me. "Do you want tea, coffee, water, or orange juice?"

"Just water," I said. "Thanks." I carefully seated myself at the table and then slathered the hotcakes with butter and syrup before digging in. I ate slowly, to savor the taste and to make sure everything wouldn't come up later. I cannot tell you how wonderful it felt just to eat real food again, especially food that was this damn _good_. I worked my way through three hotcakes, a half the oatmeal, half of an orange, and a glass of water before I finally had had enough.

Sylvia informed me that her husband would be back by noon; when I asked her for the time, she told me that it was nearly ten thirty. I retreated to my large room, pulled a large, thick blanket from the bed, wrapped myself in it, and settled myself in the window seat, watching the traffic move on the street far below. From this point, I could see all the way to the docks, though it was distant. It was almost calming to see the ocean again.

Almost.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Three sharp knocks issued from the large whitewashed door to my room, and I called, "It's open." 

The door creaked; I turned toward it to see Charles Lightoller with his hand on the knob. He looked almost odd in regular clothes and not his dark officer's uniform, but the sight was slightly comforting. "May I come in?" he asked me quietly.

I sat up a little straighter, and swallowed. "Sure." He walked slowly over to the window seat and lowered himself onto it, about four feet across from me. For a moment we were silent. I shifted, wrapping my arms around my shins. I said, "How did the inquiry go?"

He ran a hand through his hair, so that it fell forward a bit, and looked out the window. "They're persnickety about details, and it can get fairly irritating, but other than that. . ." he trailed off, and didn't pick up again. 

The silence was long and awkward. I knew that the next thing he'd say would be about my suicide attempt, and I felt unbelievably worthless. As though I'd let him down in some way. 

Lightoller let out a long breath through his nose, still staring at something out the window. "Why did you do it, Carrie?" he murmured finally.

I couldn't look at him, and I stared at the intricate designs on the blanket. "It. . . God, Lightoller, I was just sick of living. I was practically delusional with hunger, plus my clothes were soaked through, and--"

"Do you have any family members at all in this part of the country?"

"I don't have any family members in any part of the country." I told him, meeting his concerned and worried stare.

Lightoller let out a long breath. "Carrie, did Andrews truly leave you nothing? No money, nothing to do that might give you a little hope?"

"Well," I said, my voice just as quiet. "He did sort of. . . he gave me the blueprints for his next ship and told me to become master shipbuilder if I could. And if I couldn't, he told me to send it to his uncle in Belfast."

Lightoller stared at me for a moment. Then he said, "Understand that I mean no offense, Carrie, but what made him think that you'd be so capable of building it?"

"I worked at a shipbuilding company for three years." I told him. "And Thomas and I spent a lot of time going over his blueprints. He and I both figured that if I got back to work at that company then I'd eventually be able to get into a position to work on it."

Lightoller looked wounded. "Didn't you even _try_?"

"That's the thing," I told him, growing slightly defensive. "I _did_ try. Only they kicked me out because I looked like shit on a stick." I immediately fell silent when I realized how absolutely rude I'd been. "Lights. . . I'm sorry. I just. . ." I was shaking. ". . . put yourself in my place. No family, no friends, your whole world just pulled out from under you. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, not one thing to hope for." My eyes stung as they followed the blanket pattern.

For a moment he just stared at me, features softened by quite a bit. "And you don't consider me or Mr. Lowe or Pitman or any of them to be your friends?"

Oh, my God. _This_ was the reason I always tried to keep from blurting. My face burned. "I never. . ."

"And do you remember what I told you on the _Carpathia_?"

It was then that Lightoller's words came flooding back to me. He'd told me that if I needed food or shelter I could look to him for it. I'd completely forgotten about it. "I. . . I forgot." my voice was hoarse; tears fell out of my eyes from the shame. I may as well have kicked him in the shin for trying to help. "I'm sorry. . . I'm _sorry_. . . I just. . ." 

He scooted closer and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, eyes staring intently into my own. "Forgive me. I'm not trying to make this hard on you. But I don't think you thought about what you were doing before you tried to do it."

I swallowed hard, brushing tears away with my knuckles. "Neither do I."

Softly, he said, "Why did you not follow through? With the-- the suicide, I mean?"

I met his patient, worried eyes. "When I was up there I asked Thomas to send someone to stop me if there was a reason why I shouldn't kill myself." My hands were shaking. "And then you came. If that's not an answer, then I don't know what the hell is."

Silence filled the room; I waited for him to say something. At last he murmured, "Perhaps there really is a reason. . . would you be willing to try Garrison and Wheeler again?"  


I blinked. "Yes, of course, but I already mailed the plans."

Lightoller tried to suppress his disappointment. "When did you take them to the post office?"

"Last night," I told him, my eyes finally clearing, wondering what he was getting at. 

He pulled a heavy pocket watch from his vest, and let the lid click open. Pushing it back into his pocket, he said, "The mail isn't picked up until three o'clock. If we go now, we can get it in time."

"Lights--" I stared at him, aghast. "What're you trying to do? If they threw me out once--"

"You said that they did so because you looked like-- like 'shit on a stick', was it? Well, if we get you some fresh clothes, I'm sure you'll be just fine. I'll give you a hand, even. Certainly they'd obey the order of a second officer."

"Yes, but--"

He was on his feet, and looked down at me. "Did you want to get those blueprints back or not?"

Did I? Did I want to give it another go, to really try to do this, to build Thomas' ship for him?

"Hell, yes," I said, throwing the blanket aside. "You bet I want to."

"Good. Let's go now, then."

"Now?" I said, incredulous. "My hair's still damp from the shower and look at what I'm wearing--"

"You didn't seem to worry about it for the past few days. Come on." and Lightoller was already heading for the door; I hurried to catch up with him.

"Charles, where--" Sylvia began when she saw us heading for the front door.

"We'll be back in an hour." he promised her, and grabbed his hat from a hook by the door. "We're picking up something at the post office."

"Ah." she smiled slightly. "See you later, then."

Lightoller ushered me out the door; we strode quickly to the elevator. "Oh, yes," he said, suddenly fishing around in the other pocket of his vest again as we walked. "I meant to give you this."

I stopped in my tracks, stared wide-eyed at the small gold item that emerged from his pocket. Hardly daring to breathe, hard pounding, I managed, "Is that. . ."

"It is." he held his hand out; my fingers shook as I took Thomas' ring from him. "I saw where you'd gotten the revolver and knew that the ring was the only thing you could have traded for it, so I took the weapon back to the shop."

I put it over my thumb, and felt as though I were welcoming back an old friend. I looked up at Lightoller, feeling gratitude that went beyond words. "Lights--"

"Hush." he said as the elevator arrived. "It's alright. It's what any decent friend would do."

I smiled, and suddenly I felt better than I had in quite a long time.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I practically stormed through the front doors of Garrison and Wheeler. That is, I stormed as much as the corset and dress would allow me. Lightoller was on my right, Lowe on my left, as we made our way up the floor to the desk. The blueprints had been smoothed out, and were now in a fairly neat roll under my arm. The same man sat behind it as the one who'd called security on me the other day. 

My heels sank into the thick carpet, muffling their usual _click-click-click_ noise. "I feel like goddam royalty." I muttered under my breath.

"Well, you look it." Lowe said, and immediately glowed a fierce red. "Carrie, I didn't mean it like--"

I couldn't help but to smile at him. "I know. Thanks." We reached the desk; I leaned my arms on it, not caring that it probably wasn't proper etiquette. "Hi. I'm here to see Robert Wheeler. Junior." 

"D'you have an appointment?" the man said, eyeing Lowe and Lightoller uneasily.

"No." I told him firmly. "We're old friends. He'll want to see me."

I could tell without looking that Lowe and Lightoller were glaring at the man, who buckled and said, "This way." and he turned down the hall to our left; the three of us exchanged satisfied smiles. 

Moments later, a heavy oak door was thrown open and a young man looked up from a large desk. My heart twisted; memories came flooding back. This was Robert Wheeler-- one of my closest friends when I'd been here. He'd never been as low as to be a normal worker, seeing as his (now deceased) father was the head of a the company, but he'd still been as active as he could in our little community. He looked a little older now. He'd grown a mustache that matched the dark chestnut color of his hair, and he wore a business suit instead of workpants and a shirt. 

He looked up, gray eyes surprised but inquisitive as he surveyed our party. "What's all this?" he asked.

The clerk said, "These people requested that they see you immediately, sir. I apologize, but this woman claims to be one of your old friends, and I felt rather threatened." he added the last part glaring furiously at my companions and I.

Robert's eyes fell on mine; I could tell he didn't recognize me. I cleared my throat, and stepped forward a little. "Hi, Robbie." I said quietly.

For a moment he didn't move a muscle. Then suddenly he was on his feet, chair scraping the floor. "_Carrie Stevenson_?" he breathed, eyes wide. 

A smile grew and spread on my face that he knew me now. "Yeah, it's me."

"Mr. Carpenter," Robert said, fighting out from behind his desk, looking toward the clerk. "You did right to bring them here. Please, bring us all a cup of tea."

Carpenter looked fairly pissed off, but left the room pretty quickly. "Stupid oaf," Robert muttered, rolling his eyes with a smile, but came forward immediately. "Carrie, I hardly recognized you! Where have you been? _How_ have you been?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I told him, holding out my hand for us to shake, but he swept right past the handshake and gave me a friendly hug. When we pulled back, I noticed that Lowe was struggling to hide the fact that he was practically bristling at Robert; I smiled in spit of myself. "Rob, this is Charles Lightoller, and Harold Lowe, they're--"

"My God." he said quietly, even as he shook hands with them. "Not the Lightoller and Lowe of the _Titanic_?"

"The very same," Lightoller said. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wheeler. We've heard nothing but good things about you."

Robert looked genuinely awed. "I've heard nothing about _your_ spectacular deeds, Misters Lowe and Lightoller. Your courage in the sinking was truly unrivaled."

Lowe looked slightly more pleased, and said a soft, "Thank you, but your friend here has done a lot as well."

"There's time for that later," I said quickly, not feeling about talking about the disaster again. "Robbie, I've come to ask you for a job again. I know I've been away for awhile, but. . . I need to get back into the company. I want to get to a higher position than a mere worker."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." he said without hesitation. "Knowing what a committed worker you were. I'll take it up with my superiors-- maybe we can fit you into one of their programs." For a moment he regarded me. "Why the sudden change?"

"You've heard of Thomas Andrews?" I told him, fidgeting with the ring on my thumb.

"God rest his soul." Robert said quietly. "Yes, of course I've heard of him. We all have here."

I drew the blueprints out from under my arm. "I met him while I was onboard the _Titanic_. We. . . carried out a relationship. An-- an affair, more than anything, seeing as how it ended so quickly." What I wouldn't have given to feel Thomas' arm around me for support right now. "But he gave me the plans of the next liner he had in mind. He told me that he wanted me to become master-- mistress-- shipbuilder."

Robert was silent, literally awe-struck. "He told you that?"

"He said he didn't care if it took me a couple of months or a couple of decades. He just wanted me to do it. This is the only way I feel I can reach that goal."

Robert looked sincere as I'd ever seen him. "Carrie, anything we can do here to get you into position. . . anything at all. We'll be glad to help you."

I smiled at him, relieved, and glanced at my two companions, who beamed at me. "Thanks, Rob."

For a moment Robert did nothing but sort of marvel at me, then smiled warmly. "Well, I expect that some of the boys will want to see you again. I know I would if I were them. Let's go now, they're in the shipyard. Your friends can come too, if you like. And then we'll start discussing this whole shipbuilding business."

****^^^^****^^^^****^^^^****

Carrie Stevenson was immediately signed on to a six-year program designed for an apprentice who desires to enter into the business of shipbuilding. She was almost through two years when World War I broke out in Europe. Garrison and Wheeler-- as well as most other shipbuilding companies around the United States-- was transformed into a construction yard for warships, sent to the Allies in England and western Europe. When the United States entered into the war, the production quota increased dramatically, as more ships were needed for the United States Navy.

For the four-year duration of WWI, Carrie returned to her former job as a worker, putting her apprenticeship aside to help her longtime friends punch out battleships for the navy. In 1917 Garrison and Wheeler also began testing submarines, and Carrie's work shifted between subs and ships. Many of her friends went to war-- she longed to go as well, but remained behind with the older boys to continue her work on the ships.

Throughout the war, she kept in contact with Commander Charles Lightoller and Commander Harold Lowe of the Royal Naval Reserve via letter. When it was all over in 1918, both Lowe and Lightoller stopped by in New York, where they met Carrie again.

Finally, in December of 1922, Carrie graduated from her program and moved to England with a small group of Garrison and Wheeler folk, Robert Wheeler among them. Another year was spent completing Thomas Andrews' blueprints, filling in the little details and even the greater ones. It was at this point that she and her team approached the White Star Line offices about the ship.

The White Star Line was in a stage of moderate decay. Since the disaster of the _Titanic_, its popularity had dive-bombed, and it needed a new ship. It was therefore not that difficult to convince the aging Baron Pirrie that another ship was in order. He certainly was convinced after Carrie revealed to him that the blueprint was the one that he and his company had thought was lost ten years ago. 

Construction on the ship started in the Belfast shipyards on September 15, 1923, and it was completed April 15, 1925. The ship was roughly two-thirds the size of the R.M.S. _Titanic_, but just as grand, featuring a motion picture theater, beautiful accommodations for all classes, and more than enough lifeboats for the passengers and crew. Charles Lightoller was offered captainship, and he held the position for the first three uneventful voyages.

Carrie Stevenson worked hard on her ship, enduring sleepless nights and a relentless overseer, but the day she saw the new ship set forth from the harbor, all effort seemed worthwhile. The ship was called the R.M.S. _Aphrodite_, after the Greek goddess of love. It encompassed not only the love that brought the liner to life, but also the grandeur and beauty of the myths of ancient Greece. 

After the _Aphrodite_ was put to the waters, Carrie became team manager for a prestigious sports car racing team. She remained in this business for the second half of her life, in which she acted sometimes as driver and mechanic in the midst of her team managing duties. During this time, she and Harold Lowe tried several times to pursue a romantic relationship, but each attempt failed, and they finally split with the intention of remaining close friends. 

They did just that, exchanging letters and Christmas cards (along with Charles Lightoller and Harold Bride) until Lowe's death in 1944. In 1952, Lightoller passed away. Carrie attended both of her friends' funerals. She herself never married, and was killed in the late 1960s in a racecar crash. Upon removing her driving gloves, the rescue workers noted no jewelry aside from a modest gold band around her thumb. 

In 1978, the R.M.S. _Aphrodite_ docked for the final time, becoming a stay-at-home cruise liner, much like the Queen Anne. Today it rests in Southampton, both a floating hotel and a visitor's attraction due to its large collection of artifacts from the R.M.S. _Titanic._


	14. Epilogue: Homecoming

FINAL Author's Note: Holy crap. This is the end. As in, the end the end. For the actual writing part, anyway. Quick notes: I know this is slightly different from the movie. But who cares? Really, truly, honestly-- does it matter? Secondly, what do you guys think of a romantic Murdoch fic? Anh, screw it-- I'm writing one anyway. Look for that one in the next month or so. Should be as good if not better than this one. Oh, yes, and that thing about going from destitute to royalty-- I just figured that when Lightoller said he'd give Carrie a hand, and then Carrie shows up in nice clothes, you'd figure that she'd had some help from Mrs. Lightoller. Thaz all. Sorry for the confusion.

Thank-You Note: You guys, I could not have finished this story without those reviews. You were the ones that kept me motivated. I cannot tell you how much each and every review (save the sick one) meant to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to write them, and for taking the time to read this story. To sum it up: THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!!!!

Acknowledgements: I would like to thank Mrs. Kristina Grissom for her continued support, NyanNyan for actually reading this (:-)), and James Cameron for the idea based on the movie. For my sources, I used (duh) the 1997 film _Titanic_ staring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, the (excellent/highly suggested) book by Walter Lord: _A Night To Remember_, and www.encyclopedia-titanica.org for crew biographies and notes about their actions on that fateful night. Finally, thanks to www.fanfiction.net for putting this up. Without ff.net, I never would have written this. Thanks.

And now, without further adieu or rambling, I offer you a final. . . Enjoy and Review!!!

EPILOGUE: HOMECOMING

What the hell was _that_!?

I stood up slowly, dusting off my sleeves-- they'd just been covered with dirt from the sand trap. . . wait a second. This was _not_ my racing fire suit. This was. . . I stared in wonder at my wardrobe. I was wearing a simple Oxford blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow, with my comfortable workpants. But I hadn't owned this ensemble in years. . . and what the heck!? Instead of my arms showing the somewhat flabby signs of aging, my skin was. . . well, fine, just as it had been _years_ ago.

It was then that I looked up, and noticed where I was. It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, my heart seemed to swell so much that it felt as though it would burst. Such a feeling of joyous ecstasy arose in me that I could hardly breathe; tears rose to my eyes and I had to fight them back. 

I was standing on the deck of the R.M.S. _Titanic_. 

At least, that's what it _had_ to be-- no other ship I'd ever been on had been this large. And the enclosed deck I was on looked exactly like the one that Thomas and I had marched through eons ago to get to the bridge. . . 

"Fancy seeing you here." 

Shocked, I jumped at the voice and turned; Harold Godfrey Lowe was strolling toward me, dark fifth officer's uniform absolutely pristine. I was frozen solid as I watched him approach, gaping. "No." I shook my head; he had to be less than two feet away from me, looking young as the day I'd first seen him. Grinning, he bent slightly and kissed my cheek. His lips were warm, and shockingly real. 

"Last time I'll get to do _that_." he said cheerfully. "Welcome home."

"You're dead." was all I could say, shaking madly.

"So are you." he returned matter-of-factly. I gaped at him; he smiled kindly and said, "Thomas figured you might have been rather stunned, so he suggested that I come and take you to the entrance."

"Did--" I could hardly breathe. "-- did you say _Thomas_?"

"Come on," he told me, offering his elbow. "Looks like he was right." 

Hesitantly, I reached up to take the offered arm. "Lowe?"

"Yes?"

"I'm on the _Titanic_, aren't I."

"You most certainly are."

"And I'm going to see Thomas?"

"Affirmative."

"So if both you and Thomas are here. . . doesn't that mean that everyone else-- or most everyone else-- will be here, too?"

His smile was so kind. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"

I realized we'd been walking, and looked up to see the doorway of the entrance before us. This was the lower entrance-- going in would show you to the near bottom of the stairs. I saw multitudes of people beyond it, but forced myself not to look too hard. Instead I looked back at my guide. "Harry. . . thank you."

He removed my hand from his elbow and kissed it. "You're quite welcome." He released my hand, opening the first door for me. "Go to him, Stevenson."

I passed through the first door, and the man at the main door pulled it open, the grand staircase area past it. I smiled warmly at him, recognizing him from so long ago. I moved again, this time through the intricately designed wooden and glass archway.

My breath caught in my chest; not only was the place breathtakingly beautiful, but there were people everywhere-- all watching me. There was a hiatus between them that formed a pathway up to the stairs, but I didn't dare look that way yet. 

Somehow I knew to keep walking, so I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Still fighting shock, I looked to my left, at the smiling multitude. I recognized the first group, and nearly gasped. "_Hartley_!" I managed, and actually stopped before him and his band. Wally held his violin in one hand, but reached out to me with the other; we shook hands. 

"Welcome home, Carrie." he said gently, his smile so happy. 

"Thanks. Hey, guys," I nodded to his other band members before releasing Wally's hand. I turned back to keep walking, knowing that there would be more time for hi's later. However, in turning, I nearly ran smack-dab into--

"Watch it there, lass." Tommy Ryan caught me as I started to trip, a grin etched across his face. 

"Tommy," I whispered, staring up at him numbly, memories of his death rushing back. "Oh, God-- _Tommy Ryan_!"

"Good t'see y've remembered my name." he joked, beaming down at me. "Y're lookin' right as rain, Carrie. 'Tis good to see you again."

"And you," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, still trying to process the fact that this was my old friend, here and now. "We'll talk later."

There was Fabrizio, over by the banister, with his Swiss girl. He grinned at me, waving slightly. I waved back, smiling as well. My God, it was Fabrizio! Last time I'd seen him. . . last time I'd seen any of these people had been more than fifty years ago. Trembling, I finally looked toward the steps.

The first thing I saw was First Officer Murdoch.

He looked crisp and clean in his officer's uniform, and a sweet smile lit his face and eyes as he watched me, hands linked professionally behind his back. Against my will, my eyes began watering. "Hi, Will." I whispered, trying not to think of him so many years ago, putting that pistol to his forehead, and. . .

"Hello, Carrie." his voice was quiet and kind. 

Suppressing a sob, I put my arms around him and hugged him-- screw the fact that everyone else in the room was staring. He returned the embrace; all I could remember was the very man I was holding tumbling over the side of the deck to hit the icy water. "It's a blessing to see you again." he told my ear. 

"It's a blessing to see _you_," I told him, and sniffled.

But with that sniffle, I inhaled the faintest trace of aftershave and pipe smoke.

Murdoch nearly seemed to sense this, and slowly pulled out of the embrace. Though he smiled at me, his eyes flickered to the solitary, silent figure five steps above him. I looked to my right, and hadn't noticed before just how close we were to the man, who was about fourth of the way up the stairs, just as he had been that one evening when I'd met him for dinner. 

He was dressed in the heavy overcoat I'd seen him last wearing, the same slightly spotted necktie, same dark vest. He looked, however, a little younger. His hair was a little darker, and his face seemed somewhat smoother. But, glory be, it was still him. The gentlest of smiles fought for dominance over his lips, and his gentle, loving brown eyes were locked with mine. 

I stood there, frozen, not sure if I should run to him for fear that this was just some kind of dream, and that I'd wake up at any moment. "Thomas." was all I could manage.

His lips parted as if to speak; my foot found the first step and I went up one, two, three, four steps until only one of them separated us. "I've waited," his voice was so quiet that it couldn't have carried past anyone's ears but out own. It was gentle, and it shook slightly. "for fifty years, Carrie Stevenson. Waited to hold you again, to. . . ." he trailed off, eyes pleading.

Trembling, I whispered back, "What if this is just all a dream. . ."

I broke off as he reached his hand out, slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel his hand trembling as our fingertips touched, lightly at first, and then he pressed his palm onto mine.

The tears came crowding back as I remembered our last moments together, when I'd done the exact same thing to him. His palm trembled, and it was warm. "A dream couldn't do this," he whispered, and our fingers intertwined.

My shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. "Thomas," I choked out. "It's really you."

His palm left mine, and one of his arms slowly slid around my waist, pulling me close against him. His right hand moved up to touch my cheek, fingertips at the hairline behind my ear. At the same time, I found my right arm curling around his shoulders, left hand locking around the back of his neck, pulling each other close. We stared at each other, breathless, noses less than an inch apart.

My heart was pounding; adrenaline flooded my veins and odd lightning forks shot through me as I stared in to his hungry eyes, knowing that my expression mirrored his. "Carrie." his voice was husky, roughened, and then the distance between his lips and mine was completely diminished.

The dull roar I heard in my ears as we kissed took me a moment to decipher-- the people were applauding. All of them were, as Thomas and I stood on the step and shared our first kiss in God knows how long.

It had been so long since I'd felt like this, since I'd felt the rush of heat and adrenaline accompanied with the utter bliss and feel of his wonderful kiss. I trembled in his grip, and was surprised to feel his tears mingle with my own. Finally we pulled back in order to breathe, staring at each other in wonder through heavy eyelids, before turning somewhat embarrassedly to the rest of the people, still in each other's arms. I noticed Jack then, standing at the top of the stairs. He gave the tiniest of waves with a wicked grin; I couldn't help but to smile back.

The rest of the room was beginning to buzz with chatter; Thomas looked down at me again, eyes gentle. His right hand took my left, and pulled it up to where he could see it. "You still have my ring," he murmured. 

"Like I'd have gotten rid of it." I said back, and he kissed me again. His hand wrapped around mine, but when he pulled back, his eyes were serious. He said, "You nearly did."

"But you helped me out." I said, one arm still around him. "That was you, wasn't it? Who sent Lightoller?"

"In a way." he said, and the smile faded slightly from his face. His hands took both of mine, and drew them up to his chest. "Carrie, listen . . . my marriage offer still stands." He swallowed, eyes pleading for me to consent. "If you'll still have me."

Even if I'd been planning on saying no, the look on his face would have changed my mind. "Of course." I whispered. "Oh, Thomas, of course I'll marry you." His eyes welled with tears; he sniffled, and a smile broadened across his face. "I love you," I added quietly.

His shoulders shook; he managed to gulp back a sob. "I love _you_," he returned, and then we were lip-locked again.

After a moment: "Would you two _mind_?" 

I recognized the voice, and Thomas and I pulled away slightly, grinning.

The voice came again: "Take it to a stateroom, why don't you?"

"_Lights_!" I cried, looking toward the second officer, trim and handsome in his uniform. Thomas, one arm around me, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to me. 

"Hello, Carrie." Lightoller grinned back at Thomas and I. "Nice to see you two together."

"It's good to see you," I returned, quickly wiping my eyes with the handkerchief. I sniffled, trying to clear my nose. "Sorry," I apologized. "I must look awful."

"Not to me you don't." Thomas' voice was barely audible, lips pressed against my ear. An altogether not unpleasant shiver went through me; I grinned and tightened my arm about him. 

"You look splendid," Lightoller assured me. "I was sent to tell you-- Father Byles informed me that he'd be proud to do the honors of matrimony, if the two of you still wish it."

"That would be wonderful." Thomas said, clearing his eyes with the handkerchief I returned to him. "Thanks, Charles."

"You're quite welcome. He'll be in the first class dining saloon." Lightoller beamed at us, for a moment, then winked. "Congratulations, you two."

"Thanks," Thomas and I said at the same time, and then he beamed down at me. "We'd best get a move on toward the dining saloon." he murmured, kissing my forehead. "After the ceremony, I'm sure you'll want to spend some time with everyone."

"As long as I'm with you," I murmured back.

Thomas smiled, kissed my cheek, and offered his elbow to lead me down the steps.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"Jesus!" I cried as his hand suddenly went behind my knees, forcing me backwards. I fell back and onto Thomas' other arm and gaped up at him; he was suppressing laughter as he hoisted me upward. 

"Isn't it commonplace to carry the bride over the doorstep?" he murmured, eyes shining with mirth. 

"Yeah," I said, putting my arms around his neck to steady myself. "but it's also commonplace to give the bride a fair warning!"

Thomas grinned, then studied the door for a moment. He said, "I do believe we've made a mistake."

"How so?" I asked, examining the door to see what he was looking at. We seemed to be at the right place; the gold plated letters read "A-36" quite clearly. 

"I don't have a hand to open the door." he said, grinning.

"The worst of mistakes." I told him, and removed an arm from his neck to crank open the door handle. "I'm disappointed."

"Like hell you are."

I gaped at him; it was most out of character for Thomas to say such a thing. "Excuse you?" I said, wide-eyed but grinning.

He smiled at me, stepping into his stateroom, letting me down. "Think about it. I've been around your friends for fifty years." He closed the door behind him, one arm still around me. 

"Ah. That explains a lot." I looked around the room. It was of the same beauty it had been in 1912. Charts covered the desk and the coffee table; a cozy yellow light set the deep woodwork to glowing. Through the windows in the back of the room, a black ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, the stars twinkling in a deep, blue sky. An odd shiver passed through me.

"Something wrong?" Thomas asked gently, feeling the shiver.

I swallowed, captivated by the view. "Why here, Thomas? Why the _Titanic_?"

"I don't think anyone can answer that one." he told me, steering me in the direction of the sofa. Both of us dropped down onto it, a little weary. "But I've spoken with the people here, and we've all come up with a rather reasonable conclusion." His arm was around my shoulders; I looked up and into his sincere eyes. He said slowly, "We believe that heaven-- for this can't be hell-- is the place where a person experienced the best time of his life." His thumb stroked my knuckles; I practically melted under their touch, remembering him doing this years ago. 

"But it was also the worst place." I said, putting my hand over his that was on my shoulder. I fought to keep my lower lip from trembling. "It's where I lost you. And Jack, and Fabrizio, and Murdoch--"

"We haven't come up with an answer for that, either," he said quietly. His deep brown eyes seemed to smile into mine. "But I'm not complaining."

I snuggled farther into his grip. "God, I missed you."

"And I you." he pulled me closer and leaned forward at the same time; my arm slid up and around his shoulders as he kissed me. I kissed him back, feeling tears well up in my eyes. Finally he drew back slightly, eyelids heavy. Voice slightly husky and gravelly, he said, "I never thanked you, Carrie."

Struggling not to breathe too hard, I managed, "Thanked me for what?"

"For-- for everything." He swallowed, shoulders rising and falling slightly. "For all the help you gave that night. And for everything you did for me. . ." his fingers pushed slightly into the hair behind my ear, eyes so full of love. ". . . and for building my ship. Your ship. I. . . I mean to thank you properly."

I couldn't stop a smile from growing and spreading on my lips. "What exactly did you have in mind?" I whispered. 

Without another word he bent his head to kiss me; before I knew what had happened we were both on our feet. We stumbled toward his suite blindly, lips still locked, and Thomas closed the door with his foot. 

When at last his fingers began to trace down my throat toward the first button of my Oxford blouse, I had a revelation:

I remembered that day, so long ago, when all I'd wanted to do was get home. It was before I knew Thomas, the day Jack and Fabrizio and I had won our ticket and were so thrilled to be heading to America. I'd thought that was home, with its purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain. And it wasn't, not really. In fact, none of the places I'd been had earned that title. 

Then I'd found Thomas' arms. Being in them was being loved and cherished, a feeling that I was none too familiar with. I'd thought that _that_ was my home.

But now I was on the _Titanic_ again, for eternity, with not only Thomas, but all the friends I'd ever had-- the officers, and Jack and Fabrizio and Tommy. We were once again on the floating palace, the ship of dreams, beautiful and terrible all at once. Alone in the darkness with Thomas, two gold bands shining on the fourth fingers of our left hand, I found a sense of completeness that I never could have dreamed of when I was a bumbling young woman in my early twenties. _It's here_, I thought as I clung tight to Thomas' neck and let the tears of joy roll down my cheeks, thanking both him and God. _It's right here._

I was home at last.


End file.
